


Crystal Globe

by RosVailintin



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Ashley Dzerigian (Musician), Hollyoaks, HomeTown (Band), Sherlock (TV), The Vamps (UK Band), Tommy Ratliff (Musician), Westlife
Genre: Aliases, Alpha Adam Lambert, Alpha Ashley Dzerigian, Alpha Brendan Brady, Alpha Dayl Cronin, Alpha Dean Gibbons, Alpha Nicky Byrne, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Real World, Artist Jim Moriarty, BDSM, Bad Ending, Belleville, Beta Josh Gray, Beta Mark Feehily, Beta Mycroft Holmes, Beta Ryan McLoughlin, Beta Sebastian Moran, Beta/Omega, Blood, Blow Jobs, Cayl is bae, Charles Augustus Magnussen Being Creepy, Cheating, Chimeras, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Dark Past, Death, Dirty Talk, Dublin (City), Enemy Lovers, Eyes, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Français | French, Fuck Or Die, HomeTown is a super cool band!!, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, Lyric Codes, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystery Character(s), Omega Brendan Murray, Omega Cian Morrin, Omega Harry Thompson, Omega Jim Moriarty, Omega Ste Hay, Omega Tommy Ratliff, Omega/Omega, On the Run, Organized Crime, POV Jim Moriarty, Paranoia, Paris (City), Poisoning, Rain Sex, Rape, Shower Sex, Song Lyrics, Suicide, Threesome - M/M/M, Tragedy, Tubal Ligation, Twins, Unsafe Sex, Violent Sex, omg what have I done to my characters, seriously, someone is kept in the dark, song titles, sorry no mpreg, when everything is programmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if we are living in a crystal globe? What if everything that happens around us, everyone that passes by us, and every piece of the history is long programmed? What if life is all and simply about being a part of someone's programme and at the same time putting someone into your own programme?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Is The Colour

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Chapter 2: De L'Ombre Et De La Lumière](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821704) by [RosVailintin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin)



> So this is something I seriously have a plan about. It's a 7-fandom crossover, but MorMor is still the major pairing. And it's my first A/B/O dynamics work, and I choose to write about a beta/omega pairing rather than alpha/omega which is seen more often.  
> Chapter I, III and IV are written in English, and Chapter II is in French, and there's an English translation the link of which is above. Neither English nor French is my mother tongue by the way, so I'm still fixing some weird parts.  
> This work is first inspired by _[From Russia with love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3946615)_ (it's really good!!) by [Moriartyisback](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartyisback) about which I've already written a song called _One Last Crime_. Btw this title _Crystal Globe_ is the another song I've written, and the first line of its chorus is 'What if we are living in a crystal globe'.  
>  And yes there's a ridiculous amount of names of specific places in this fic (it's one of my weird habits, like, if I write about a pub, I just feel like I need to name it and describe all the details of its interior lol). All places mentioned are just for the story and I almost haven't been to any of them. I'm writing while searching on Google Map (streetview is af)! And all the violence and deaths are simply for the plot and have nothing to do with the characters/real people/actors in real world (similarly, if any of my original character happens to have the same name as a real person, I definitely don't mean them).  
> Also...I'm still not very good at writing sex scenes (especially in French) so...yeah I'm sorry for those crappy descriptions and hope you at least enjoy the storyline.  
> And I'm writing chapter 2 in French so that it fits the story better...but that's really a big challenge!  
> PS I really should say sorry for another sad ending...It's really sad, and you see the 'Major Character Death' in the warnings. Up to now most of my works have bad endings, and I'm really trying to write something happier! There seems to be an area in my brain called '100 Ways To Kill Your Characters' and every time I tried to come up with a happy ending, it ended up some cliché like 'and then they lived happily together ever after' so I just write yet another bad ending lmao. I do LOVE my characters! I just can't help being really cruel to them and killing them in the end. I'm sorry for being so evil and for all the discomfort the deaths bring you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Is he the omega with big black eyes?' They ask. The name is Aron-Jake Sarsfield. Artist. Well, that is not all that I am, though. Art is just a part of me. Keep that in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to make things clearer in the first chapter of the work even though this story will not be absolutely clear until the end. I've got a lot of great ideas for this chapter and hope you enjoy! It's a bit challenging writing in first person but I really enjoy it. And tbh I've never been to Ireland. Thank you Google Map.  
> Btw I really like Part III of this chapter! There will be no MorMor sex scene in the first two parts because I don't think it's logical that one moves into someone's house and has sex with the landlord just several days later...  
> Chapter title is an Irish song, and the first version I listened to was Brian McFadden's cover. The complete lyric is 'Black is the colour of my true love's hair.'  
> Beta'd on 29 May 2017.  
> Here we go!

#### PART I

Between lost and found, you show me the difference.

\- Westlife·The Difference

* * *

I drive down this narrow road called Ballybetagh. It's already rather far from the main road, and the tune of _Rocky Road to Dublin_ comes into my mind. But this road will never take me back to Dublin.

I'm already near the border of Dublin and Wicklow, and my old Nissan Altima seems to be the only car on the way, and it's making those dull, regular noises. This car had been left in the corner of the garage for some three years, so apart from running and producing some disgusting smoke, it can't really do anything more, such as playing music. That's driving me crazy. And I feel that I'm lost.

Don't get me wrong, I know where I'm going. There's a studio for rent at a very low price in a duplex by Glencullen River. I just don't think I'm going the right way. My phone's got only 7% of battery left and I definitely can't just knock at a random door and ask for a charger. All I've got is this A2 size piece of paper called _Ultimate Map of Ireland_ which I bought just for the craic on St Paddy's day last year from an Astonian artist named Kora. It's a quite accurate map, and it took her half a year to paint it. Although it's kind of old and some of the places have changed, it doesn't really bring big difficulties for me.

What sucks now is that she's still well-off just by drawing all kinds of maps while I've lost almost everything only because of a wrong package - I mean, when the package was sent out and I found the painting I intended to sell still in the basement, I knew I was in big trouble, but I'd never thought it could be this big.

Let me explain.

Early this month, I received an order of 'a painting of what you see from your bedroom window at 4am every morning', and noted that he'd pay at least a grand for that. It's weird, but anyway, for me, a grand was a lot. As an artist, I was never rich, though I had some fame in the circle, and when someone talked about Mr A-J Sarsfield, people would ask, 'Is he the omega with big black eyes?' Well, I don't know whether my fame was because of my face that 'doesn't really look Irish', or because my works varied from paintings, sculptures, posters, ads, and sometimes coutures, and for a few times, performance art, plus that my genres covered classism, impressionism, surrealistim and fauvism and some more, or because I was one of the few omegas they ever knew that prefered beta boys to alpha ones. That's part of the reason why I chose Mark Feehily as my assistant. I like that boy. He's the kind of beta that is quiet, and extremely artistic. I won't deny that I have some affection for him - He's a deep thinker, a good listener, and a wonderful divo - But I'm certainly aware of the chemistry between him and Nicholas Byrne Jr, the blond alpha who's a karaoke singer, known for his unique magnetic voice and the beautiful duets with his father, the crackin' old fella who has a fanbase of his own around the place.

And that very day I had the painting framed, I gave Mark the address and asked him to wrap up the painting and mail it to the client. He had just come back from the Racecourse Inn and I was sure Nicky was there. He napped for three quarters before setting off with the painting.

After he left, I went on with a few more pages of _Ship of Theseus_ , then headed to the basement. Walking down the stairs, I watched my step, thinking about what to do for the rest of the day. Then I reached the floor, raised me eyes, and saw that painting lying quietly against the wall. Mark had mailed another painting, and I didn't know which one he took. Maybe it's a mistake to store so many drafts and unfinished pieces here.

I called Mark, and he said he's taken the one I'd described to him.

'What did I tell you?' I asked him.

'You told me to take the one right facing the stairs, which is of the morning view outside your bedroom window, sir.'

'And which one did you take?'

'Just the one facing the stairs with the morning view, sir.'

'Then why do I still see it here?'

'There were seven of them, sir, you know that, and two of them are facing the stairs, so I took the more detailed and more richly coloured one.'

'Is that the one RIGHT facing the stairs? If you turned off the light and switched on your torchlight and flashed it STRAIGHT FORWARD from the stairs you wouldn't flash the light on the one you'd taken.'

'But that one you referred to is unfinished, sir. I thought it was a draft.'

'How do you decide it's unfinished? Did I say that? Did I say it's a draft?'

'...No, sir.'

'You've put us in trouble, Mark. Real trouble.'

'I...I'm sorry, sir.'

'Come back. Now.'

'Yes, sir.' Mark murmured, and hung up. His voice was a bit broken.

I let Mark go, dealing alone with all the troubles left for me. At first he insisted to stay, but I insisted that he should not. I don't know where he went, and I don't know whether he'll miss me or not. This had to be it; he had to leave.

Within a few days, I was accused for commercial fraud and put in almost all I'd got to not be imprisoned. By the middle of this month, I was bankrupt. To be honest, this came a bit sooner than I'd expected. I left the garage I'd been staying for the past two weeks. I gave all the works in my studio to Jam Art Factory, packed all my supplies, including the 7 rolls of paper and canvas and my 12 tool boxes filled with brushes, paints, tubes, carving tools and all, into the trunk and the rear seat of this Nissan Altima that had been abandoned for long enough. My goal at that time was simply to find a cheaper place to live - This garage charged me €50 for two weeks, and that's too much when you only have half a grand with you.

I went all the way down towards Wicklow. I visited several studios, but they were either too expensive or too awful. At last, now, I lay all my hope on this little duplex near the border where I'm heading. I followed the map down Ballybetagh, but then I got lost, and now here I am. The address the owner provided suggested taking Red House Road, but that is the opposite of where I'm going.

There ain't a single car on the road, nor even a passer-by. It's 3:56 in the afternoon, and I haven't yet had a proper meal. No pub opens early on Sundays, and I've had enough of the takeaways and cafés.

So I just drive on. I'm still lucky: It's sunny and cool today, and I've got plenty of petrol. If it were rainy, I'd rather die in that garage. Seriously speaking, not many people would mind if I had shot a bullet into my own throat this morning.

I see a pub at the crossroads. That's not in the map. I don't know if I can get anything nice to eat here, but anyway, I'm not really hungry anymore. Still, I pull up in the parking lot and walk to the pub. **JOHNNIE FOX'S PUB** , it reads, below that **ESTABLISHED 1798**. It's not a small pub, and it looks quite lovely on the outside. Kora didn't include it in this map, and it's obviously deliberate. She probably wanted to leave me a surprise.

Anyway, I walk in. Every pub is different and unique, really, that's what I've got after having been to so many around the city. Here, the colours are dark and the light is dim, but it's good. What attracts me the most is that they've got all sorts of nice little things everywhere, from ceramic bowls and pots on the roof, to the vines hanging down around the windows, and the paintings and posters and small items all over the wall. There isn't a crowd at this time. Some boys and girls are singing and laughing in the main bar, talking about their favourite bands, HomeTown, Taken, 1D, the Vamps, Little Mix, OG3NE, and many more. Other than these people, there's a young couple outside, and another guy in the left corner by the window, making a phone call. He's glancing at me. I turn away.

'G'd afternoon sir, what can I getcha?'

I turn around and see this boy, around 18 or 19 years old, smiling at me behind the bar. He's an omega, and his scent is sweet and cheerful.

I order a bottle of Jameson, take a stool, and watch him get my drink ready. He's quite tall and slim, and has a very strong but pleasant British accent.

He turns back to me like dancing, '4 euros 80, sir, please.'

I pay and ask, 'You're not Irish, are ye?'

'No. I grew up in Manchester.'

'Oh, Manchester. I like Man United, by the way.' I take a sip of my drink, 'Then why did you come HERE?'

'Well,' he looks down at his hands, 'it's mostly for this job.'

I nod, thinking to myself that there's probably something he doesn't wanna say, just like me.

'Here's really different from the town.' I say casually.

'Yeah. I felt it too when I first came here.'

'I don't remember seeing a single car all this way.'

'There ain't many people here,' he looks up at me, 'and it's good, dontcha think?'

'Yeah, maybe. Anyway, it's the first time in my life that I can drive all the way without stopping.'

The boys laughs, and then he looks me in the eye and say, 'Look - You're not here for the weekend, right?'

I'm rather surprised by this. I answer after a second, 'Well, no, of course not.'

'That's what I thought. It's Sunday today and you said you just got here.' The boy does his analysis with a serious look that is pretty funny on his childlike face.

'In fact, I'm moving here.' It's not what I have planned to tell this bartender whose name I don't even know. I mean, sooner or later he'll find it out, but after all, this story is not something nice about me, bankrupt and having nowhere except the cheap studio to live.

'Look,' the boy continues, 'I don't -'

'Steven?' A man softly calls, coming from a passage behind the bar. It's an alpha, and his scent smells like sweet whiskey. I looks up at him. This guy has a beautiful mustache, which, though, makes him look older than he is. His flame red shirt matches perfectly with the lighting of the bar, and with the black tee of the young omega. They are paired. And shamelessly speaking, I can see how tasty this boy can be in heat.

This man notices me. He quickly scans me with this typical sharp sense of an alpha, which I don't really like. But still, I want no trouble here and now, so I pull a smile.

'Hey...' The alpha says in a teasing tone, narrowing his eyes, 'Haven't we met somewhere...'

His scent wraps itself around my waist, and it annoys me. I don't know what to say. I just hope I looked better than I do now when he saw me 'somewhere'.

'Was it in Dublin Mall Shopping Centre?' This man asks, his scent growing stronger, travelling up.

'Well, I don't really remember.' I enhance my own scent as well.

He takes a step back, 'You bumped into me in the gents' room,' he said in a serious look, 'and you even said sorry.'

'Oh,' I look down and grin, 'that's a good joke.'

'Ha!' A laugh bursts out, 'Yeah, yeah, a good joke.' But then he takes the smile back and puts on his serious look again, moves a step closer to me and whispers in a low, cranky voice, 'Man, you really think I don't know who you are...'

'Well I...I don't -' His way of talking, along with the damn scent, is making me uncomfortable.

'...or who you WERE, I'd rather say.' He grins.

I hate his smile. 'What do you mean?' I try to keep calm, but I hear the fire burning beneath my trembling voice.

'Ooh...Don't get mad, little man -'

'Ta gueule.' I growl in French, glaring into his brown eyes, 'I don't like the way you're talking to me, you get that? I hope you take that shit back into your mouth,' I glance at Steven who's staring at us nervously, 'if you're not looking for any trouble.'

The alpha grabs my tee and pulls me up from the seat.

'Brendan!' Steven shouts in panic and anger. I smell his sweet scent. From the corner of my eyes, I see the teens staring at us in shock.

This guy named Brendan makes a sound with his teeth, puts me down, and steps back. Then I see Steven catch his shoulder, drag him aside, and come up to me.

'You're alright?' He softly asks.

I'm tidying my clothes. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm good.' I look up and answer, smiling at him.

'Well...I'm really sorry for that.' He smiles too and looks down at his twined fingers, 'Brendan's sometimes quite...you know, he just likes looking for trouble.'

'But YOU don't have to say sorry.' I take a sip from my bottle of whiskey, 'It's not YOUR fault.'

He looks at me and grins. I've gotta say that, among all the boys at his age I've ever met, his smile is one of the most heartwarming. It's the kind that lights you up.

'Mr...Sarsfield?' I hear somebody calling. A male. The voice is from the left corner, just loud enough to be heard.

I follow the voice and see the man who was just on the phone. He is waving at me.

'Excuse me.' I nod to Steven, take my drink and walk over.

This blond guy makes a gesture to let me take a seat. I sit down across from him. He's in a neat turquoise shirt, which makes his hair seem blonder and his eyes bluer. He is a beta, and is actually looks younger than his age of 27 suggests.

'Good afternoon.' I greet, showing a friendly smile.

The man looks at me, then looks down at some files, and asks, 'Mr Aron-Jake Sarsfield?' He raise an eyebrow and looks up.

'Yes, it's me.'

'Ciarán O'Toole.' He introduces himself, reaching out a hand.

I take it, thinking that this is the right person I have been looking for.

'So, Mr Sarsfield -'

'Aron, please.'

'Well, okay, Aron. So you would like to rent a studio?'

'Yes.'

'Right. I'm the owner of the east half of the duplex. The west half belongs to three young people - two guys and a girl - and I suppose they're a rock band or something, I don't really know. Just, as long as you don't mind the noise -'

'Not at all.' I say, 'I love rock music.'

'Okay. And...' he unconsciously plugs the edge of the pieces of paper in front of him, 'I don't think the studio is enough for you.' He looks up at me, 'I mean, there's no kitchen, no bathroom, and there's a bit of problem with the wardrobe -'

'Right,' I'm a little bit impatient, but at the same time amused, 'tell me what you HAVE then.'

'There's a door, four sides of walls, a window, and curtains, and a bed, a fireplace, and a big wooden desk, and a chair.'

I hate the innocence in his clear blue eyes when he's looking at me.

But of course, I hold it back, and ask, 'That's all?'

'Oh, and a mirror above the fireplace.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'So how much space is left?'

'About...about half of the room.'

'That's large enough.'

'Oh yes, and there's a basement. I don't really go there much and there's only a few bottles of cherry wine I've made. You can take that place too if you like.'

'That's really nice of you.' I smile at him, 'But does that add up to the rent?'

'Ah, about the rent...' Ciarán throws me a naughty look - and I hate that - 'Let's talk about it after you've seen the place yourself. But I promise that you can afford it.'

I doubt that, I really do. This guy seems nicer than I thought, but after all I've just met him 5 minutes ago.

'May I go visit the house now?' I ask, finishing the last drop of my drink.

'Yeah, sure.' Ciarán picks up the files and stands up.

I push the empty bottle away and get up too, and it's not until this moment that I realise how tall he is. My eyes just reach his lips. It's not a cool thing. Don't get me wrong, I'm used to looking up at people to meet their eyes - though it tires me a lot - but this beta now seems a bit tougher than supposed. This feeling doesn't really make sense at this moment, since he has such friendly blue eyes and such a bright smile, and as an omega who's met loads and loads of pretty beta boys, I still give an A for this one.

I follow him and go out of the pub.

'Is that your car?' He asks.

'Ugh, yes, shite.' I roll my eyes, 'Shouldn't have drunk that much.' I murmur with a sigh.

Ciarán takes a look at me. 'If you allow me to drive you there...'

'Yeah, alright.' Anyway, there is no other choice. I will never drive after drinking, that's for sure. 'Thank you.' I add.

'It's nothing.' He walks to the car and opens the door for me with the key I gave him.

I say thanks and get in. He settles himself next to me and starts the car.

'What's in the rear seat?' He takes a glance back.

'Oh, art supplies.'

'You're an artist?'

'Yeah. I thought you knew that.'

'Well, I guessed you were, but I wasn't sure.'

'Hmm.' I smile, looking down, 'How did you guess?'

'I don't know.' He looks away, 'I just thought you were.'

'Hmm, okay.'

'But...' he turns to me, looking into my eyes, 'it's just...you have that something...you know, you're just different from the other renters I'd met before. There were artists among them, but you're just different.'

I grin, casting my eyes down. I know he doesn't mean it. And he seems to have observed my mind, and keeps silent for the rest of the journey.

I love the countryside of Ireland. When it's sunny, everything is just so brilliant and fresh, and green is the colour of the whole world you see. And if it weren't such a situation, I'd prefer cloudy or rainy weather, when the sun wouldn't shine, the sky grey and the world dark and wet, like some magic going on. If I were even just a wee bit better off than this, I'd love to stay here a lot more.

The duplex isn't far from Johnnie Fox's. We drive down Barrack Road, and the house is facing Glencullen River.

'You told me to go down Red House Road.' I say as I get out of the car and open the rear door.

'Yeah, I'm take that way more often, but it's not the only route.'

I nod, and reach out to the rear seat to pull out the 7 rolls of paper and canvas. There's also a bag of pencils and chalks as well as a box of dry pastels. I feel Ciarán's stare on me.

'You, um,' he clears his throat and says, 'you...you need some help?'

I doubt if that's what he wanted to say. 'No, thanks. I can do this myself.'

He doesn't say more, just standing there a few steps behind me.

Then when I have cleaned up the rear seat and open the trunk, he comes over and takes 4 tool boxes out at one time, 2 in each hand. 'You won't do this yourself.' He says.

I glance at him.

He sneers and continues, 'I don't believe you packed and loaded all these on your own. You're hardly taller than this roll of canvas -'

Then he shuts up in my glare.

I admit that Ciarán is stronger than me. It's the strength one can only obtain in the military. These boxes are like cartons to him, but my breath is already a little heavy when I drop the last roll of canvas on the studio floor upstairs. Maybe it's because I didn't have lunch, nor breakfast even. So when Ciarán asks if I'd like something to eat, I don't reject.

He then leaves me alone in the studio for me to get things in order. I leave the door open and take a brief look around. The window is large, facing south. Below it is the desk. The fireplace is in the middle of the west wall, and the mirror Ciarán previously mentioned is hung above it. The bed is set in the northwest corner, head to the west, and the wardrobe occupies the other corner behind the door - one of its doors is broken and it won't shut. This place ain't that terrible as he described, but one thing that I dislike is that when I'm sitting at the desk, I don't see who comes in. The door is behind me. But anyway, the space left is enough for me to arrange all my supplies.

It's a tiring job. It's taken me nearly an hour to clean the place up and put things in their spots. And that wardrobe annoys me a lot. Thank God that I didn't take many clothes with me, so I simply bury them under the quilt, knowing that I'm much more likely to fall asleep on this desk rather than in bed. My book lies on the easel.

The phone has been charged over this time. I unplug it and slip it into the pocket, and go out to find Ciarán.

I slowly walk downstairs, and see Ciarán reading the papers in the large sofa. Sunlight of late afternoon casts on his side, and the whole scene looks like a painting. I think of _Interior with the Artist's Wife_ by Albert André. Despite who he is, this sight is beautiful.

He notices me, and puts the papers on the mantel shelf.

'How do you like the room?' He asks as I come closer, 'Sit down if you like.'

'Not too bad,' I sit down beside him, 'and I like the desk.'

'I think you'll like somewhere by the window to work. And I hope the wardrobe doesn't bring you much trouble.'

'No, not at all.' I smile, looking down at the floor.

He takes a look me and go, 'Have you seen other rooms?'

'No, not yet.'

'Would you like me to show you around?' He asks as he stands up, 'Then we can talk about the rent.'

'Alright.' I follow him.

He takes me to the kitchen, the dining room, the bathroom, the study, and the basement he has talked about. It's a bit smaller than mine, but large enough for this duplex. And unlike the house, this basement isn't divided into two. By the west wall stands a drum set and several guitars.

'You said there's a rock band living in the west half?' I ask.

'Yeah. They make music here. They used to play in the house, and I asked them to come here. They're just too loud.'

'Well, I'd like to give it a listen though.'

'If you stay in the sofa tonight, you'll hear them. They usually start after dinnertime, and sometimes plays all night.'

'That's good.'

He stares at me, shocked, with that look on his face as if it were the first time he had ever seen a human, and says, 'Sorry?'

'I said it's good.' I look up into his eyes, 'Free overnight rock concerts, it's good.'

He's still staring at me. Then he says, 'Let's...let's talk about the rent.'

'How much do you want?'

'Look, Aron,' he leans back against the wall, 'I don't ask for money from you, 'cause I know you ain't got much.'

How thoughtful, I think, but I don't really get it.

'But you're an artist,' he continues, 'and though I don't know much about your works, they won't be bad, I suppose.'

'I'll take it as a compliment.' I say, despite feeling a little offended.

'So I just ask for 2 paintings a month. That's the rent. I think you can afford this.'

I look away. This is rather far from what I expected, and I don't know how to respond. Ciarán just fixes his eyes on me and waits for my reply. I can certainly afford this for at least half a year, but the condition is that I only paint these two paintings each month and do nothing else, which is impossible. I'm an artist, and I can't just paint to pay the rent. And there will come a day when I run out of paints. I need money. Fortunately, not many people know me around here, so it won't be too difficult for me to find a job somewhere or sell my works to the locals. I still remember the face of the receptionist at Jam Art Factory when she saw me. Luckily, she didn't talk too much or drive me out.

'Is there...a problem?' Ciarán finally asks.

'I say, Ciarán,' I sigh, 'it's not practical.' I look up at him.

He looks at me in confusion.

'You don't even understand what an artist do. We're creators, not machines. Ideas don't come whenever we want them to, and it's painful searching for inspiration. Often the only solution is wait, you know what I mean? You ask me for two paintings every month, but it's not like I can produce something whenever I'm supposed to, you understand?' I close my eyes, take a deep breath and exhale slowly, 'Okay, even if we suggest that I won't run out of ideas. I pay you with two paintings a month,' I continue, 'and it seems like it costs me not a penny. But I don't get a penny either, and sooner or later I'll run out of supplies.'

'You want me to pay for your supplies?'

'No, I don't mean that. I definitely don't mean that.' I pause, and add, 'But I won't stop you if you'd like to.'

'Then what do you wanna say?'

'I need someone to pay me. I need money.'

'You're asking me for money?'

'No!' I sigh, 'You just keep getting me wrong!'

'Listen to yourself, Aron.' He gets a step closer, 'I try to make things easier for you and I just charge you two paintings a month and I thought it was no burden for an artist, and now you're scolding -'

'I'm not asking for money from you!' I shout, stepping back.

'Then what do you want?' He raises the volume as well.

'I want - I just wanna know how I can make a living here, you understand? It's a world of money, and I need money to survive, you get it?'

'How to make a living?' He leans back, 'You're an artist and - How do I know?'

'I'm not asking about how an artist make money. I know that well enough.'

'Can you just speak normally? Just what -'

'How,' I cut him off, 'can a criminal-to-be live as an innocent artist here?' I say slowly word by word, and look him in the eye.

He stares at me for a while like a doofus. Then he mumbles, 'There's an art centre off Ballybrack Road. It's called Pine Forest.'

I raise an eyebrow, 'They're looking for artists?'

'I don't know. You can go and ask them.'

I nod.

I take a shower after dinner, and go back to the studio. I'm still a little drunk, and I feel empty. For the first time in my life, art fails me. I can't express myself with my own artwork. They say that if you feel your life empty no matter how much you try and fill it, you're depressed. I don't know. The definition of depression Kevin Breel gave was 'feeling sad when everything in your life is going right', but I don't yet know whether things are going right.

Around 9:30, I hear some noise down in the basement. Someone says, 'Somebody has been here.' It's a female's voice.

Shite. I must have used too much _Fahrenheit_ to cover up my scent.

They start playing, and I get up and go downstairs. They go silent when they hear my footsteps. But anyway, I don't intend to be quiet. I hop off the last staircase, and see my three neighbours. From what I've heard on the way, their music ain't bad. Their genre is mostly glamrock, and they almost immediately remind me of Tokio Hotel.

The lead singer is a tall alpha boy named Adam, and the bassist is a beautiful omega called Tommy Joe. When they stand together, it's an interesting sight, because Adam is so big and tall that Tommy's like a little kitty beside a huge black Irish Water Spaniel. The boys are rather delighted that they've got a supporter in me, and I do like them. I've dreamed of becoming a rock star when I was a kid, of singing like that, dancing like that, smashing the stage and listening to all the screams, or getting a band together like Metallica. Now I see myself in them, little me in my teenage imagination. I just didn't go down that way. My parents were against almost everything I did; my grandparents supported me, giving me cash every birthday and every Christmas, saying that I could be whatever I wanted to be, but they left me when I was 15. One year after that, at midnight, I left home, went to their grave, bade them goodbye, and set off for Paris. Richard was there.

'Adam, finish yer sandwich.' I turn around and see this girl coming down, 'Don't leave it on my bed again.' She throws the sandwich to Adam.

'What were you doing up there?' He asks.

'I left my phone there.' She picks up her guitar without even looking at him.

Then she looks up and notices me.

She fixes her gaze on me for about 2 seconds.

Beneath those heavy eyeliners and thick eyeshadows, I see her eyes moving, scanning me.

There's another 2 seconds of silence.

I break it.

'Aron-Jake Sarsfield,' I introduce myself with a polite smile, 'good evening.' This sounds stupid, I say to myself.

'Good evening.' She replies, 'Ashley Dzerigian.'

She has the tone of a queen in her voice, and the fragrances of mint and tobacco in her scent. This cool alpha girl, she's quite my type, but I'm never dreaming of getting her burning lips on mine. She's got two boys around her fingers, and after all, I have a guy to deal with now.

'You live with Ciarán?' She throws this question to me.

'You can say that. I've just moved in.'

'Oh. Interesting.'

'What do you mean by "interesting"?'

'He's gay, Ciarán. We all believe he's gay; he just doesn't admit it. He remained a bachelor for 3 years - Well, I don't know what happened before that - But for 3 years since we came here, he has barely talked to me. But okay,' she shrugs, 'that may not be very convincing. But,' she suddenly makes a loud clap with her hands, making eye contact with each of us one by one, 'I've seen him with a blond guy. I forgot his name, it's Colin or something, I don't really remember. We've all seen him. That boy used to come every week and would sometimes stay for a few days. Now he doesn't come often, but now Ciarán has you.'

'Nice.' I cast my eyes down and chuckle, 'So what else do you know about him? I need some stories for the night.'

'It's not NICE, Aron. You won't enjoy staying with him.' Tommy says, subconsciously patting on the strings of the bass, 'He drove us here.'

'Yeah, I've heard him talk about that.'

'Did he tell you that we played in the house all night?'

'He said you did sometimes.'

'We haven't.'

'You haven't?'

'No. We've never played after 11:00.'

'Oh.' I raise an eyebrow, 'What a pity.'

'Pity?' Ashley repeats, 'Is that a compliment?'

'You can take it as one. He said you were noisy but...I think he just doesn't get how great rock music is.'

'Army killed his wildness.'

I go silent. They ramble on about his childhood, his father and his military life, and I listen quietly. There is a strange emotion rising in me; I feel kind of bad for Ciarán, but most of all, I begin to wonder how they know so much. It appears like he has told him all the stories.

I stay with them for some more time, till it's really late. I wander back to the living room, and it's so quiet. I stand in the middle of the darkness. This place looks rather mysterious in the moonlight.

I pull out the phone in my pocket and call Richard.

He answers.

'Hey.' He says.

'Hi, Richie,' I reply, 'It's me. Sorry to disturb you this late.'

'It's alright. What's the story?'

'Not too bad.'

'You've met him?'

'Yeah. Bet he's half German. I'm at his place.'

'You're still a nocturnal animal.'

'Well, I like being a night hunter.'

'Is he still up?'

'I don't think so. But my neighbours are.'

'Your neighbours?'

'Yeah. They're quite nice.'

He pauses for a moment. 'Is he good to you?'

'Not bad so far. He suggested me a job at an art centre nearby. I'm going there tomorrow.'

'You're not teaching little kids to draw?' He giggles, 'Can't imagine that.'

'Nah,' I roll my eyes, 'I'm not gonna waste my time on the little dudes. How's Paris?'

'Still raining. If it goes on like this I'll be mad, really. Even the market is closed. Hope it's nicer in Dublin?'

'Yeah, it's really nice. Thank God for that.'

'That's good.'

Then we both go silent. I hear him sigh, softly.

I hesitate a bit, and say, 'You're not still working, are ye.'

'No...not really.' He pauses for a second, and adds, 'Just don't feel like going to bed.'

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing much,' he purrs with a soft, comforting giggle, 'nothing much, don't you worry.'

'And just...don't drink too much.'

'Yeah, I know that.' He sighs, 'I'm a big boy now, and you don't need to repeat this every time you call, alright?'

I'm at a loss for words for a moment. 'I just...' I finally say, the volume slightly rising, 'I just wanna care. You used to drink so much when we were in Paris, and you're seldom completely clear-minded when I call you. Yeah, maybe it's because I always call at night,' I take a break to breathe, 'so you may be quite sleepy, and I'm -'

'Calm yourself down, honey,' Richard raises his voice a bit too, 'I didn't mean to blame you for ANYTHING.'

'I'm not angry anyway.'

'But it sounded like you are. You should know that.'

'And you sounded like blaming me, you should as well know that.'

'Look, honey,' he lowers his voice a little, 'shall we just stop this?'

'Stop what?' I find my voice so cold and flat.

'I know you won't say it first, but shall we just stop this?'

'Yeah, I hear you, but STOP WHAT?' I hear steps coming down the stairs behind me.

'You know what.' Richard purrs - The steps get closer, and slow down gradually - 'This bloody fight that we're in.'

'It's not a fight.' I grumble.

'Alright, okay, not a fight.' Says Richard, lazily stretching the words long. The steps stop quite close behind me.

'A moment,' I say, 'I guess we've been so loud that we woke someone up.'

'That's your fault. I'm on the phone.' He says in a dramatic tone, 'Besides, I didn't wake anyone up.'

'Bullshit. There's only you in that goddamn house, right?'

'Is it him?'

'Yeah,' I turn around, 'I guess it is.'

'Then I'd better go to bed now. G'night.'

'Yeah, love ye, g'night.'

I hang up and slip the phone back into my pocket. I look over my shoulder out of the window. It's quite dark now, and I can see thousands of stars. I lean on the windowsill and simply appreciate the night. I've always loved nights, especially those with the moon and stars. That is partly the cause of my nocturnal lifestyle. Once I set up a tent on the Cliff of Moher and stayed for a week. I remember staying up every night just to watch the stars, millions of little rose-cut diamonds on a piece of pearl night blue velvet. It's one of my favourite sights. The Little Prince said that when you looked at the stars, you'd see them smiling and hear them laughing.

But I'm afraid Ciarán doesn't see or hear that at all.

'WHAT are you doing here?' He demands. His voice hasn't fully waken up and cracks.

I move my eyes away from the night sky and look at him. He's in boxers and a long white shirt that reaches the coccyx. And if I get it right, I see his erection under the thin fabric. I smile discretely.

'I was calling someone.' Ain't that rather obvious though, I think to myself.

'Yeah, who? Someone in Tuvalu?'

I stare up at him for a second. 'You don't have to know that.' I say in an extremely cold and flat voice. He frowns, and watches me turn back to face the window.

'It's my house, you know.' He raises his tone a bit.

'Yeah, of course.'

'Who allowed you to open the curtains?'

'I did.'

'That doesn't count. Giving yourself a permission isn't called allowing.'

'Don't tell me what to do.' I look him in the eye, 'It's not in the army, Ciarán. Have you ever observed the night? The darkness, the stars, the little sounds made by all kinds of nighttime creatures - Have you ever found them beautiful? Have you ever really cared?' I take a breath and sigh, 'You missed a lot, Ciarán.'

I'm about to quote 'army killed your wildness', but stop myself in time. I see that stupid look in his eyes again, but oh, the colour of his irises is so seductive and so perfect.

I walk past him, purposely touching his shoulder with mine and causing him to slightly stumble, and get upstairs.

I go back to the studio, and don't bother switching on the light. Staring at myself in the mirror, for a moment, I think I see Richard. No, he's in Paris, I tell myself. I sit back in the chair, facing the window.

 

#### PART II

'Cuz I'm only a crack in this castle of glass.

\- Linkin Park·Castle Of Glass

* * *

I hear some noise. I manage to concentrate a little, and decide that it sound like someone knocking on the door. I stir, but keep my eyes closedt. For a short while, I wonder where I am. I feel like I'm floating in the darkness - and I see lots of colourful dots.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I regain my senses immediately. I remember sitting behind the desk and staring at the stars last night, and probably falling asleep with my face buried in my arms. I move my hands and look up over my left shoulder, rubbing my eyes. The first thing that comes into my sight is a bare arm and the body of a man in an anthracite grey tank top. I sit up a little, and recognise Ciarán's face. He looks slightly worried.

'Are you okay?' He asks.

I blink and look out of the window. 'What time is it?'

'11:46. Do you want to eat or just -'

'Why do you wake me up this early? Is there a fire?'

'But -' he frowns, then quickly takes back the hand on my shoulder and put it back in his pocket, '- No, but it's noon! Are you just gonna waste the day like this?'

'I'm not WASTING the day! I'm just taking a break. And there's still plenty of time.' I press my cheek on the right arm, looking at Ciarán from the corner of my left eye, and mumble, 'You spend the day eating, drinking, laughing, crying; well, I do that at night. It's the same.'

He remains there speechless for a while. Then he opens his lips and slowly asks, 'So you eat three meals every night?'

I burst into laughing so hard. It's been some time since I've had such a good laugh. I bury my face in my arms, trying to stop myself from giggling. 'Oh, Ciarán,' I manage to say between my shaky gasps, 'why are you so cute?' When I eventually recompose myself and keep my breath steady, I look up at him, 'You don't really mean it, do you? It's not copy-pasting. THAT would really be a waste of time.'

He stares at me for another second. 'Okay...' he murmurs. 'And, um,' he looks down, then fixes his eyes back on me, 'sorry for what happened last night, if you're unhappy about it.'

'Nah,' I smile and close my eyes, 'no big deal. We all get that sometimes. By the way,' I open my eyes to make a wink, 'nice top, boy.'

'Oh, um, yes - No, I mean, yeah, thanks.' He lowers his head, but I can still see a smile, his cheeks flushed.

'And he's not in Tuvalu,' I smirk lazily, closing my eyes again, 'the guy on the phone last night.'

He doesn't respond to that. After a few seconds of silence, he softly asks, 'You don't - You just sleep HERE?'

'Hmm.' I make a low croon.

'Alright,' he walks away, 'I'll leave you here.' He pauses at the doorway and adds, 'There're chips on the coffee table downstairs.'

 

I wake up again at around 2:52 in the afternoon. I go downstairs to get some food, grabbing a Cherry Coke from the fridge on the way. I've planned to go to Pine Forest Art Centre and see if I can get a job there, so I simply put on a white shirt and a pair of jeans, take my sunglasses, and go out.

'Going somewhere?' Asks Adam, smiling, as I walk to the garage.

'Yeah, to the art centre.'

'You work there?'

'No, not yet. Is it far?'

'Not really. If you like, I can go with you. I'm going to Hunters Wood.' He comes over, 'We don't need to drive. You can take Tommy's bike and we ride there.'

This surprises me. 'Thanks. That's so nice of you.' I smile back.

He accompanies me to the art centre, and we separate there. I get a job quite effortlessly as a tutor of the teenage art students on their portfolios. Some of them have heard of me, but it seems like the incident about that painting hasn't spread to this far. And with the money, though not much, that I get from this job, I can at least afford the supplies and some nice clothes.

As I leave the reception and go to find the bike, I hear kids laughing. Before long I see them, and immediately, my mind go blank for a brief moment.

What the fucking hell, I whisper. If this were MY bike, I wouldn't mind, but it's NOT. I walk over.

'Hi there!' I call out loud, pulling a smile from the corner of my lips. They hear me and run away as fast as they can, not even casting a glance at me or taking their acrylic paints away. They can all go race in the Olympics, I sneer. Instead of going after them, I go to observe the bike instead. The guardian, a lady in her mid-30s, returns before long and keeps apologising that she's just received a package from her son and was at the reception. She's close to tears for not having been in the spot.

'It's alright, it's alright,' I pat her on the back, 'alcohol can wash acrylic.' It's of course a joke, for I don't have a drop of denatured or rubbing alcohol. But this is certainly as much a shock for someone like her at this moment who has given up hoping for forgiveness as a relief. She catches me on both shoulders and spends the next 30 seconds thanking me.

'It's not mine anyway.' I say, looking away.

Hearing this, she withdraws her hands, rolls her eyes at me and leaves.

I take off the sunglasses. The little bastards painted quite badly, but I still recognise it - It was some 7 years ago; I'd just arrived in Paris, and joined a gang of some local blokes. We created a set of codes to do some dirty business. Two years later, I got myself out of it because of the disagreement between me and the rest on our next trade, and I left the Marais and went farther to Belleville. There were workshops and studios of many artists. I hadn't used the codes any more since then on, until one rainy night when I saw them again on the white tee of that man. Two magpies, two crossed guns, a skull in the middle, and a rose. And now here they are, on this bike. Tommy's bike. Despite what terrible painters the kids are, the artwork they've left me won't irritate Tommy much. He'll just take it as a Guns N' Roses fanart, and two magpies will simply mean joy.

I ride the bike back without even trying to remove the acrylic paints. It's a few minutes to 5:00, and I don't know whether Adam has returned or not. The codes still occupy my mind, but it's more a puzzle than a threat, and I begin to feel that things are starting to go wrong. I must have missed something.

Tommy's not home. I ask Ashley to pass him the message that I'm sorry about the doodles on his bike and that I'll see if fixative or turpentine or anything I have can clean acrylic. Of course they can't, every pigeon out there knows that.

It's not yet dinnertime, so I put the bike where I took it, and go upstairs back to the studio. I've got some ideas for a new painting which probably can pay the rent. I pin a piece of raisin format craft paper on the sketchpad on the easel by the window, and open the paints left over from the last painting which has brought me all the troubles.

Then, before my brush even touches the paper, my phone rings. I hold the brush between my teeth and pull the phone out from the pocket. It's Adam. I hesitate for a moment, and answer it.

'Jay, where are ye?' He still prefers to call me 'Jay', and I'm not quite sure whether this has something to do with the bird.

I take the brush out of my mouth. 'In the studio. Why?'

'Okay, alright. I thought you were still in the art centre.'

'Got the job quite easily. I'm starting tomorrow.'

'Oh, great!' He says with genuine gladness, 'Congrats, bro.'

'Thanks.' I'm about to hang up, since it seems like he's got no more to ask me, before remembering something, 'By the way, Adam, where's Tommy?'

'Tommy? He should be in the pub, I don't know.'

Johnnie Fox's Pub it must be, I tell myself.

Adam goes on, 'Why, you're looking for him?'

'Yeah...There's some problem about his bike.'

'Oops.' He whistles.

'Some kids there painted acrylic on the bike. I don't quite know how to clean it yet.'

'What did they paint?'

'It looks like the logo of Guns N' Roses, and there's a magpie.' I have some sort of feeling that he actually knows it and asks simply to continue the conversation. 'Two magpies.' I correct.

'Not too bad.'

'But they're terrible artists! Terrible Matisse imitators they are - And I'm afraid fixative and turpentine won't dissolve it. I'll probably have to repaint it.'

'That's a good idea.' Adam purrs.

Yeah, it is. For him, it certainly is. I think I've succeeded in making this incident sound much less serious than it actually is, but this doesn't make me feel any better. Judging from Adam's reaction, he's too indifferent to convince me that he's been kept in the dark; but it's hard to tell, for some people are just indifferent to whatever happened, and it's not HIS bike anyway. But what will Tommy say? I used his bike without even telling him, and now it's got these childish doodles which is in fact a supposed-to-be-terrifying sign for me. If Adam knows what's going on, then there's a huge possibility that Tommy knows it as well, and if so it'll be easy; but if he doesn't, this will certainly either annoy or hurt him, more likely both. And deep inside, I don't want to hurt Tommy. When someone gets annoyed, it's no hard job to make them happy again; but if someone's hurt, it takes much more to heal. Despite all my dark past, I still have a heart, whether others believe it or not, and am not a total Satan. For someone like Tommy who hasn't done any bad to me, there's no reason to hurt him like that.

I've finished an abstract during the time I've been thinking. Abstract works don't require much mind - you have a vague idea about it, and then it's all up to your hand. And there's no wrong or right, because the concept about wrong or right is quite abstract itself. And similarly, you can't understand an abstract artwork, for understanding is also an abstract feeling. 'The moment you think you understand a great work of art, it's dead for you.' I remember it's Oscar Wilde's quote. So I don't even say that I understand my own works. You can FEEL them, but no one can ever UNDERSTAND.

As I go to the bathroom to wash the brushes and the pail, and my hands of course, I hear knocks at the front door.

'Jay?' It's Adam, 'Are you there?'

'Come in! I didn't lock the door!' I shout, placing the supplies on the countertop of the vanity cabin. I always hate washing these, so I use watercolour and gouache much more often than oil or acrylic, simply to avoid cleaning the palettes. Airbrushes and pastels are great too, but pencils are certainly the best invention in this world. Yeah, fixative smells terrible, but compared to washing all the brushes, a little odor is worth it.

From the corner of my right eye, I see Adam coming in after a few light knocks at the door. Tommy is behind him. Shite, I think. It's not a good time to talk.

'Yer busy?' Adam asks, observing my brushes.

'No, not really.'

'Oh, okay. Just wanna tell you that you don't need to clean the paints on that bike.'

'Oh, so you come here for this.' I look up at Adam, and then at Tommy, 'I'm sorry.'

Tommy simply shrugs. 'It's okay,' he says with a grin, 'I like Guns N' Roses anyway.'

'So you're keeping those silly arts?'

'Yeah, that's what I was saying.'

I raise and eyebrow and nod slowly. This is not good for me, definitely not. Whether they recognise the codes, as long as it exists there, it can serve as a proof for whoever knows that part of my past that I'm the bad boy who's been in the business.

'Well...You need help?' Adam points at the brushes with his chin.

'Not really.' I watch him pick up a #4 flat brush and stir the water in the pail with it, 'I can do it myself, you know.'

His hands stop moving for half a second, 'It's a lot of work.' He says, and goes on with the brush in his hand.

Adam being here, the space in front of the sink is slightly crowded, and the pail certainly can't contain two pairs of hands. He says sorry almost every time his hand touches mine.

'You don't really have to apologise, you know.' I eventually say after hearing 'sorry' the 17th time.

Before Adam respond, we all hear footsteps coming upstairs.

'It's Ciarán,' says Tommy, standing by the door frame with his head popped out, 'and I don't think he's very happy.'

Adam touches my hand with the back of his, 'You didn't do anything,' he whispers nervously, 'did ye?'

'I don't know.' I mutter. I'm listening to the sound and trying to calculate how near Ciarán is, but Adam's scent is getting too strong that I can't even concentrate.

'Oh no,' Tommy quickly turns around and gives my shoulder a few light shakes, 'I think you should do something. He's walked in to the -'

'Aron!' Ciarán shouts.

I take the brushes out of the pail, place them beside the sink, and walk out. I guess he's angry about the mess in the studio, but before that, he must have already got some trouble in the pub. Maybe it's Brendan again, heaven knows.

Even with the mask on, I follow the smell of alcohol to the studio. As I'm approaching the door, habitually slowing down, someone comes out and bumps into me so hard I almost fall over. I look up, and meet Ciarán's burning eyes.

I step aside and take off the mask and latex gloves, waiting for his inquisition.

'Oi,' he says after watching me tidying myself for a few seconds, 'you don't even say sorry?'

I glance at him. He's frowning so hard I can clearly see the frontalises and a big 'I'm angry hear me roar' written across his foredead. 'You almost knocked me down,' I say calmly, 'and I'm supposed to say sorry?' I tilt my head and blink.

'No,' he rolls his eyes, 'not for that.'

'But YOU SHOULD apologise for exiting a room and turning into the hallway without even slowing down. You caused physical damage on me.'

It takes him a second to get my point. 'Physical damage?' He finally asks, barely moving his lips but any other parts of him, like the characters in a crappy animation.

'What takes you so long to respond?'

'Sorry?'

I roll my eyes. 'Making conversations with you is torture, Ciarán O'Toole.' I sigh, telling myself that he won't understand this, and answer his question, 'Yes, physical damage.'

He blinks twice.

I close my eyes. 'Fuck, it hurts! You know how much impulse the collision creates?

'Oh, I'm sorry.' But then he's like suddenly waking up from a nightmare and goes, 'But look at that fucking smell in the studio -'

'Verb, son!' I cut his words. Not a top class joke, but I still want to stress it. 'And what's wrong with the smell? I live with it every day and what do YOU complain about?'

'Fuck you.'

'Nothing else to say?' I raise an eyebrow, tilting my head.

We stare at each other for two seconds. Suddenly, he comes up and locks my neck with his palm on my Adam's apple and fingers above the arteries, pushing me across the hallway until the back of my head hits the wall and makes such a loud bang that I hear little exclaims from Adam and Tommy.

He's bent down so close to me that I can count his eyelashes, his lips just inches away. With the right hand still tight around my neck, his left hand trace up my jawline to the cheek, giving my eyebrow a long, slow stroke with the thumb.

I have avoid his hot, desiring gaze.

Putting the mask and gloves into the pocket of my white gown is the first thing I come up with under this situation. Then with both hands free, I catch him by the collars without a warning and leave a brief, rough kiss on the warm, dry lips. He gets so shocked and overwhelmed, which lets me slip away from his control.

‘Oh, by the way, the smell...' I casually place a hand on his shoulder, facing him with my profile, 'it's turpentine,' my hand slides down slowly from the slightly trembling shoulder, 'linseed oil,' they rest for a short while on his clavicle, before going down to the beautifully constructed chest. I glance up, '...and varnish,' he lets out a quiet moan as I trace down the muscles, my fingertips rubbing one of his already half-hard nipples on the way, 'and the paints.' There is a little smile across my lips.

'Get your fucking hand off.' Ciarán growls, his voice low and slightly hoarse with the uneasy breath, and I know he wants to sound authoritative.

'Oh...' I raise an eyebrow, 'alright.' I quickly yet carefully run my hand down his body, making the touch feel unplanned while not leaving out any sensitive spot. For a nice ending of this little treat, winking as a kind warning, my warm palm slides down his abdomen to the pubic region, followed with a patient stroke with each of my five fingers along the long erected cock through the fabric, as I appreciate his shaky groans.

The moment the last stroke is done and dusted, I leave without lingering, returning to the sink to get the washing done. Adam and Tommy are still there.

'Told you he's gay.' Tommy smirks, 'But that's impressive, Jake, really impressive.'

'You know,' says Adam as I pass him, 'I'm now pretty convinced that you used to do a lot of performance art.'

'Not A LOT.' I frown.

'Man, you don't know,' Tommy says with an even a little excited voice, 'there has never been anyone who could do THAT to him, like, running your hand all over his body and making him big and hard just by touching. You're the first one.'

I look at him, 'How do you know that?'

He tee-hees, 'He said it himself.'

'To you?'

'No,' he sneers, 'of course not. You remember that blond guy he had been with?'

Certainly. I'm thinking about whether I should let Mark know. I nod.

'He said to that boy once that no one had ever topped him and that he was always the one to touch and stroke and bring others over the edge.' He adds in a proud tone, 'They were in the living room, and we could hear everything.'

'Yeah, and they did it there.' Sighs Adam.

'Sorry?'

'They did it in the living room. I think it's on the floor.'

'Oh, poor kid. He topped that alpha?'

'Yeah, he topped him.'

'So how's the boy the next day? You saw him?'

Adam stares at me for a while in doubt, 'Do you know him?'

'Why, yes.' I pause a second, and add, 'He's a pub singer in the Racecourse Inn, and he does some karaoke in many other pubs and clubs around the place. He's quite known.'

'Well, he looked alright the next morning - I mean, still on his feet, not limping or something.' Adam giggles.

'But c'mon, that was a BRILLIANT live broadcast that night.' Tommy smiles a naughty grin, 'We heard literally everything, you know,' he gives me a wink, 'pity you weren't there.'

I see the light in his eyes under the thick mascara. 'Oh yes?'

Tommy smirks, 'You've seen him - You've watched him sing, right?'

'Yeah, so?'

'So you can imagine all that, man! Him bottoming and all the sounds, the moans and groans and pants...He's hot, Jake, SO HOT, I'm telling you.'

'Are you talking me into trying him?'

'Well, that's up to you.' Tommy raises an eyebrow, 'You know him anyway.'

'You like him, Tommy.' Says Adam, 'Admit it, you like him. YOU wanna try him much more than Jay does, don't you.'

'Kind notice that he's not available.' I cock my head. Just for Mark's sake, I think.

'What - You're already together?' Tommy leans forward.

'Look at you,' sneers Adam, gently punching him in the chest, 'you're jealous, yeah?'

'No, we're not together, stop shipping us.' I roll my eyes. Then I put down the brushes I've finally finished washing, 'But I do know who he's with, personally, I mean.'

'Not a beta who tops him again?'

'Nope, not again,' I answer with a purposely mysterious tone, 'but yes, a beta.'

'Ooh...you said KNOW him?'

'Yeah, personally KNOW him. He's sweet.'

'Oh my. You two didn't have something..special?'

'Shut your face.' I roll my eyes.

Tommy giggles, sticking his head out to see if Ciarán is still there.

'Oh yes, Jay,' says Adam, 'we're doing a gig at Johnnie Fox's next Saturday evening, yer coming?'

'Yeah, alright, great.' I answer before even thinking about the possibility that I can't go. Anyway, I haven't come up with any case that will really stop me from going for a pint and some good noise.

I put the brushes and all those things back in the studio, locking the gown, mask and gloves in the wardrobe, and go downstairs to see if dinner is ready.

It's not, obviously. Ciarán's nowhere in sight. I check the kitchen, and find no trace of anyone even attempting to prepare food. I end up making myself some spaghetti with a good glass of cherry wine.

Ciarán hasn't showed up all night. I switch on the telly in the hope of finding something to kill the night, but I end up spending one and a half hours on some dull detective show. I'd rather sleep early - How adorably boring people are.

I know that Ciarán will be annoyed to find me spending the night in the couch the next morning. I know that he'll violently pull me up and demand me why leaving the studio window open. And I know that I'll just tell him he can take the painting on the easel as half of the rent this month, and he'll roll his eyes and leave to take it. The end.

But the next afternoon when I wake up, the silence in the house tells me that for the second time in my life, I'm wrong.

There's no sign of him in the house, but no sign of him being away either. I take my phone and go to work.

 

**PART III**

You make me wanna love, hate, cry, take, every part of you. You make me wanna scream, burn, touch, learn, every part of you.

\- Zella Day·Shadow Preachers

* * *

It's been a month since I came here. Ciarán shows up much less since the little incident in the hallway, and he doesn't interrupt my midnight phone calls or mind my sleeping in the couch anymore, which is actually pretty nice. I didn't go to see Adam, Tommy and Ashley at Johnnie Fox's either. I had planned to, but there was a girl whose portfolio needed some further instruction to reach a higher ground. She's pretty gifted, and I told myself she was going to be the next Monet the first time she showed me her paintings to me.

I still remember Ashley's face when they came back from the gig and found me watching Boyzone's _By Request Tour_ in the couch with chips and Cherry Coke. I didn't tell them I wasn't coming, and they never ask me to gigs again. Not that I care, though. I'm fine on my own.

It's another Friday afternoon, and I get up from my desk, thinking about what to eat. There are some clouds, but the sun is still bright in the sky, so I decide it won't rain before my return - I usually finish early on Friday anyway.

I put on a random grey tee, squeeze into the black skintight jeans, pick up the phone and some cash, and leave the house.

The teens are doing fine as usual, despite the mess they make all over the place. They know well that I'm always the last to leave and that I'll always clean the room before locking it, so they never really bother to be careful. Little bastards.

After having swept away the last bit of gouache on the floor, I stand up, closing my eyes for a while for the blood glucose level to come back to normal, and consider killing an hour at Johnnie Fox's. The weather's fine now anyway.

Brendan's at the bar this time, Ste nowhere to be seen. I get myself a 26-year-old Teeling Vintage Gold Reserve and settle down at a small table in the pighouse. I don't usually go to the quiet hideaways in pubs, but I do enjoy exploring them. This narrow space with dim light leaking in from the courtyard is nice, but not my frequent, for Ste was always at the bar when I dropped by. No matter how much he tries to conceal from me, it's been rather evident that Brendan plays some role in Ciarán's business which has something to do with me, and which I'm not so happy about. It's also clear that Ste is partnered with him, but he has been nice to me all the time, and I'm pretty sure that he hasn't added anything in my drinks - I've got, though, quite a good command of drugging people with beverages. I've once made a small pot of saffron and crocus sativus tea, and it was a very lovely afternoon drink which I served to a cocky little shit and sent him to hell with it.

I haven't at all noticed that the sky has turned dark and that rain has been pouring down from the thick grey clouds, until I hear Ste comes back going, 'Fuck this weather.'

I finish the rest of the whiskey all at once. I check my phone, 17:42. 'Ste,' I call as walking out of the hideaway, 'you've got any umbrella?'

Ste looks over his shoulder, still dealing with his wet shoes, 'Bad luck for you today. I just lent mine.' He makes a sorry face, 'There's no umbrella left in the pub.'

'Alright,' I shrug, 'it's not a long way back anyway.'

'Take this,' he hands me a jacket, 'or you'll catch a cold.'

'Nah, I'll be fine. But thanks.' I push the door open and enter the rain.

This rain is much heavier than I've expected, like a whole bucket of water pouring on me, wetting me all over immediately. Raindrops drip from my eyelashes and hair, flow down my cheeks to the neck, then into the thin t-shirt, making me shiver. I begin to run. Probably due to the cold rain, I'm not yet too drunk to keep the balance. There's no one around, fortunately, which means no one sees me running in the rain, clothes soaked, water streaming down my body, rushing back to a place that doesn't even deserve to be called home. I think of Richard who's been suffering the endless rainy days in Paris.

I finally reach the doorstep, still not completely sober, and out of breath. The curtains are closed, and on the window I see my own reflection. If this happened in a film, then okay, I'm looking incredibly sexy; but it doesn't. It's this fucking reality.

And for some ridiculous reason that I don't know, the door has been locked. I ring the doorbell and knock, but no one comes. I call Ciarán, but he doesn't answer.

You're trying too hard, Ciarán O'Toole.

I phone Richard.

'Hey.' He always starts with the same line.

'It's still raining?' I ask.

'Yeah. Almost flooding.'

'It's pouring here.'

'Finally.'

'Shut up.'

'Nah, just joking.'

'And I have no fucking umbrella with me.'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes.'

'Where are you now?'

'Outside the house. He locked the damn door.'

'He's out?'

'I think so. He doesn't answer my calls.'

'Screw him.'

I sneer. 'Don't yet.'

He chuckles. Then he says, 'So what are you gonna do now? Just wait?'

'Yeah. I can stay under the eave anyway.'

'But is it cold?'

'A bit, yeah. No big deal, I won't catch a cold.'

'Why the heck are you out after all?'

'I just went to work this afternoon; it wasn't raining then. Then I went for a drink, and it rained.'

'What did you drink?'

'That's all you care? Teeling Gold Reserve, 26 years old.'

'Hmm, not bad. But honestly, it's not like you to be so careless.'

'I'm not CARELESS. I just didn't know it would rain so soon.'

'Whatever.'

There comes the uncomfortable silence again. I hear the raindrops hitting the ground, a sound I always love.

Suddenly, I feel a cold, large drop of liquid hit the back of my neck. A shadow approach behind me. 'Gotta go, call you later.'

I simply step aside without even turning around.

'Open the door.' I order plainly.

Ciarán looks at me up and down with a weird light in his blue eyes.

'Open the door.' I repeat with a stronger voice, staring back at him.

He makes a half-sneering half-giggling sound, and unlocks the door.

'It rains this bad?' He asks with an improperly cheerful smile across the lips.

'Not the kind to dance in.' I drop my wet shoes on the floor. 'I'll go get a shower.'

I think I see his irises turning green.

Although I told Richie I wouldn't catch a cold, I'm not 100% sure about it. Hot water touches my cold and wet skin, making me feel alive again. Walking in the rain isn't something that disgusts me, it never is. I'm just uncomfortable that Ciarán saw me standing outside waiting for him to open the door - I mean, if it was someone else, say, Richard, or Ste, or even Adam, Tommy or Ashley, I wouldn't mind much. But Ciarán, no.

Ciarán is an exception.

Then the door is slammed open.

The small space behind the curtains where I'm staying is misting up. I feel choked. Every second of the horribly clear memories 4 years ago floods back to my brain.

It was an early autumn night. The clock ticked 12, and I was ready to leave the little pub I was working in. The pub was owned by a beta man from Portuguese, and it didn't even have a serious name. I heard that it closed down only one year after I left. Belleville wasn't a safe place after sunset, of course, and it's definitely much more dangerous around the little streets and alleys, not to mention for an omega aged only 19. I would flirt around from time to time and earn some spare cash from one-night stands, and I did use drugs. But no matter what, I always made sure that both me and my client were safe.

That night was different, and it changed the way things were going without a sign.

As I put the last glass back, a guy came in. He looked at me, and looked around. And he looked at me again.

Not willing to stay any longer, I said, 'Pas ce soir, monsieur. Je suis désolé.' I walked towards the door, 'On est fermé, et je vais partir. Bonne nuit.'

It wasn't until I put my hand on the door that he suddenly went, 'Sorry?'

Shite. This French lad wanna speak English. It's gonna be pretty awful.

'Didn't know you speak English.' I grinned.

'I just want a glass of Guinness. I hope I'm not too late.' He said with a prying look and a strong Galway accent.

But c'mon, man, you thought you could fool a real Irishman with this fake accent?

But I still said coldly, 'I'm afraid you are, sir. As you can see, we're done for tonight.'

He caught my arm, 'Then can I just take a rest here?'

'I'll have to lock the door.' His hands were wet with sweat, clenching around my arm disgustingly tight.

'Do you mind giving me just something to drink? I'll pay double price.'

I said after a short hesitation, 'If you insist.'

I offered him a glass of crème de menthe. 'Specially made, sir, for you.' I teased as I handed him the drink.

Then I got a call from Richard, 2:30 exact. I went out to answer it.

There were only a few people in the streets now, most of them beggars and waives, and they were asleep. Even the party animals and the drunks had left. I didn't walk away too far, keeping an eye on the guy in the pub.

Suddenly someone gave my head a violent punch. The fist didn't land on the worst spot, so I fought back, but there was a crowd coming. My sight turned dark and all senses were gone, and I knew nothing more.

When I woke up, I found myself being dragged into some narrow and out-of-the-way alley. I couldn't see the placards.

The rain had wet everything.

'Qu'est-ce qu'on fout?' I shout.

'Rien!'

'Eh bien, qu'est-ce que c'est maintenant?'

'T'vas l'aimer.'

'Lâche-moi!'

'Pas de question.'

Okay, good. My wrists were tied up, and struggling could only make things worse. I'd rather see what they've got for me.

Soon, I spotted the man with the codes on his tee. Two magpies, two crossed guns, a skull in the middle, and a rose. It's over, I told myself, you failure. Such a big stupid mistake.

The man didn't even bother a greeting before stuffing my mouth with towels. I got blindfolded, and my clothes were mercilessly peeled off.

I heard some more people coming.

Désolé mais je l'aime pas, monsieur, si c'est ça que t'as dit, I yelled in my mind. PAS DU TOUT.

The rain was cold. All naked, I was shivering.

The next second, I couldn't care less about the weather. No preparation, no warning, I felt my legs being lifted, my back pressed flat against the wall, and a hot, hard, huge cock penetrated straight into my hole. I wanted to scream, but only ended up biting into the towels.

The man was in heat. An alpha, in heat. The scent, mixed with that of all the others, filled the dank air. His knot was deep inside me, and I couldn't help clenching around his ridiculously enormous dick, taking the pain with no pleasure. That's what called instinct. Thank god I had so many one-night stands before that I wasn't yet bleeding right now.

But this guy kept thrusting in, each time stronger, deeper, and more violent. And he's speeding up. I felt like the bones of my back were cracking - and man, I was in my proestrus. I was just considering leaving the job at the pub for a while for the heat. This alpha would have tons of sperm for me.

I was slightly surprised that I could still think instead of blacking out. The pain was burning me; self-lubation could only make it a wee bit better. He's raping in a rather straightforward way, no touches or caresses; he came in you, and it's done.

If only he would just come.

I was on the edge for long enough; my cock was welling up painfully. I hated the idea of coming for THIS MAN - or anyone in the gang - and I just held myself there, with every shove hurting from beneath and the back. I have no idea how I made it. Maybe the one-night stands really helped.

'Allez! Plus vite!' I heard people around shouted. I wondered whether there was already an audience gathering around.

'Viens pas encore?' The asshole panted in my face, 'Regarde ta bite...'

Yeah, I knew my cock must have been covered with precome, hard and twitching, and that my entrance should be red and swollen. I knew what he would do next.

'Tu l'veux pas, hein...' He whispered in my ears, 'Mais t'sais...' he took a pregnant pause, and growled just beside my face, 'tu peux rien faire!'

He guffawed and roared as he began shoving in even faster, madly, roughly, mercilessly. It was one of the few times I realised I was really scared and that my body was out of control. What he had been doing was simply the preparation, and now it was the real job. I knew I was almost screaming from my throat to every single crash, I knew the wall was bruising my back, I knew the look on my face was horribly twisted, and I knew that if he went on like this, I would faint before getting pregnant. Time passed so slowly, and I couldn't count how many times I've come; I was over the edge again and again, almost drained, but he didn't stop. The cheering echoed near and far, high and low around my head, and I saw no light - whether it was due to the blindfold or I was already in a coma, I didn't know. My body was exhausted, and my mind was a blank void.

Then I got a slap in the face.

'Chienne! Bâtard!' The man yelled in my ear.

He dropped my legs and flipped me over so that my chest was against the wall. He placed a hand on my back, pinning me hard on the rough bricks, and invaded me again as forcefully as ever, if not more. The wall was abrading my nipples as I struggled to keep my cock from getting hurt. Lucky that I couldn't really ejaculate anything and my cock wasn't so full anymore. After a few dozens of thrusts, the towels in my mouth were removed. Before I could release a broken moan, my hair was pulled back and something filled my mouth again. I felt like eating shit; the huge penis in my mouth was shoving in and out with the disgusting sour smell and the greasy scent, making it hard to breathe. I wanted to vomit; my chest was pressed painfully against the rough wall, the tip of my cock was constantly hitting the coarse surface of the bricks, and that my skin was bruised more and more badly was the only thing I was clearly aware of. The alpha above came in my throat for some three or four times, and for a moment I wondered if he was peeing.

The torture lasted for at least half an hour, since I had been in a blackout. They dropped me. FINALLY. I sank down to the bottom of the wall like a heap of raw meat.

Yet they didn't take the blindfold off, neither did they leave.

I didn't care. I was totally worn out.

What the heck had I been doing?

Half a minute passed. Someone caught my wrists again and dragged me up. They pulled me along the alley to some little cell, and chained me up, my back against the wall.

'Chef!' The guy beside me called, 'Ici!'

The message was passed by the people waiting outside, one by one, till it reached their 'chef'.

Soon, I heard steps - Nice shoes, I thought. Here came the boss, the man I had been searching for and who had been searching for me for years. I didn't need to look to know.

But shite, I hated meeting him like this.

He came over and stood in front of me.

'Ça va, petit?' He teased.

I sneered, 'Tu parles anglais, non?'

'Oh, chéri...' He purred.

'J'sais c'qui tu es. C'est pas mystérieux, t'sais.'

'Whoa-' He sang dramatically. The blindfold was taken off, and I closed my eyes to the sudden light.

'Impressive, impressive.' He said as I opened my eyes again.

This coward. He had a mask on, dressed like Batman.

So lame.

'What am I here for?' I asked directly.

'You care?'

'Hmm.'

I believed I saw him smile. 'For our entertainment.'

'What craic it'll be.' I said flatly.

'You don't look very excited.'

'I'm not.'

He turned silent. 'You will be.' He finally said, winking at me behind the mask.

These blue eyes.

He led others out, and locked the door. Childish threat, I thought. Even if I died here, whether of hunger, pain, infection, the heat, or anything, it wouldn't make much difference. More little bastards would be looking for trouble everywhere after my death - I mean, if I died, Richard would not live on either, so they'd be losing two BAMFs at once.

There were meals sent in regularly, and aside from being chained up, there was no more torture. It seemed weirdly peaceful staying in this cell like a pet.

However, I was clearly aware that my heat was near.

They seemed to be aware of it as well.

The morning of my second day here, I woke up to the sour in my back and waist, and the burning desire in my erected and almost leaking cock. Shite. All naked, I just saw myself a bit too clearly.

After a while, I heard footsteps approaching. No breakfast, please, I prayed. The chains kept me from curling up or touching myself or doing anything that would make it a bit better.

Fuck, I was feeling like a whore.

The door was unlocked. I closed my eyes.

'Vas-y, avance, vite!' I heard a man scolded.

The response was a light grumble, hard to tell whether from a male or a female. Male, please, I thought, if I was predicting it right.

As they slammed the door open, the cool, strong scent of burnt tobacco, chocolate and fresh cherries told me that it was an alpha boy, rather young, in heat, and probably virgin. IN HEAT, AND PROBABLY VIRGIN.

Jeez.

I chose to take a look at him. And good Lord, he's beautiful. I meant it. I didn't know him, I hadn't seen him anywhere before, but he's beautiful. However, even with my cock welling up uncomfortably, the instinct still forced me to do the necessary deduction. Raw wrists, shaky steps, bruises on the chest and knees, bites all over the neck and shoulders. Eyes staring down at nowhere. Nice. They've got another prey.

'Amuse-toi bien.' A man with black mask pushed the boy forward.

Then he turned to me, 'Amusez-vous, messieurs.'

I rolled my eyes.

The boy was still hesitating.

'Quoi? Faut-il qu'on t'montre comment faire?' Another man by the door asked ironically, 'Une fois encore?'

The young alpha blushed violently.

'Baise-le! C'est simple, lâche!'

For one instant, when the boy looked up, I saw the terrible panic in his eyes. The men locked the door again and left, laughing boorishly.

There came the dead silence.

I wondered if what happened to me had just happened to him.

'Ça va.' I finally said.

He glanced at me, frightened.

'Ça ira pour moi au moin.' I corrected.

Just by the sight of him, I knew well that he was dying for a good shag. So was I. And I knew as well that he had no condoms with him, which was part of the reason why he was afraid.

'Viens.' I ordered. This had to happen anyway, sooner or later, and the sooner the better.

He blinked a few times, then slowly walked over.

'Ici. Plus proche.'

It took him longer to decide whether to take this step.

'Vite,' I groaned, 'je t'en prie.'

His lips were trembling, 'Je...j'suis désolé, mon-'

'Bullshit!' I growled, 'Tu le fais ou pas?'

He obviously couldn't hold on any longer, but shame and embarrassment and his inexperience was pulling him back.

I stretched the chains to lean forward and bit his lower lip. I tasted blood almost immediately, and jeez, he's delicious. He muttered uncomfortably, but didn't reject. Little by little, he seemed to forget about the situation, and sank his teeth into my skin. The chains were bruising my body, tbut compared to the marks this boy left on me, it was no pain at all. He was like a vampire revived with endless desire of the bloody taste.

His hands fell to my hip. I doubted if he was really shorter than me. It was just that I was chained up against the wall some distance off the ground,, which made it kind of hard for him to hold my lips, but he didn't let go. The watery sound echoed in this rather large cell.

I felt my butt cheeks being choppily spread, and a big, hard, hot dick got stuck at the entrance. I gave his lips a rough bite as a protest against the rude attack.

He unwillingly drew back to look down, only to blush even more. 'Je...j'peux pas...' He rested his chin on my clavicle, looking up desperately, searching for a way to properly sink in but in vain.

'Quoi?' I was a little impatient, gasping.

'...Je...C'est que...' he panted against my shoulder, '...N'peux entrer...'

I almost laughed, but he broke down. He was sobbing. Right in front of me.

'Mais bon, t'veux que je t'aide à ÇA?'

'Je...' he was shaking, 'j'sais comment faire mais...'

'Et alors vas-y!' I almost scolded, 'Ça fait pas trop mal, ok?'

He must have been terribly frightened by what they had done to him. I wondered whether they actually fucked him or did they just attempted to, because apart from the bites and bruises, there was no trace of even a blowjob. Then had he been in the crowd around me? The fear, the horror in his eyes when he saw me, the totally unnecessary carefulness in his touches - Has my miserable experience become a bigger shock to him than to me myself?

He eventually was beaten by his own instinct. We were anyway IN HEAT. He was anyway VIRGIN. It wasn't a skillful shag, but at this moment and under such condition, I couldn't care that much. My cock was hard against his belly, his nails carving my skin, and his knot was madly growing big like a monster inside me. With the heavy chains, it's harder for me to catch up with his inhuman rhythm.

Dopamine. Good. He was ejected dopamine.

I didn't really calculate the time, only knowing that I came about 3 times, ejaculating sticky white liquid all over his chest. It must have lasted for at least half an hour. I had a weird foreboding.

I felt the boy rolling his hip sort of uneasily. 'Ugh...' I grumbled, 'Qu'est-ce que tu fous?!'

His tip was still hitting my prostate. He was blushing again, eyes firmly closed.

I bit the side of his neck, 'Mais qu'est-ce que - Ugh!' He gave another rough thrust. 'Réponds-moi! Qu'est-ce que tu fais?!'

This lad seemed to be determined not to answer me before he got things under control himself. He began pushing me in the waist against the wall with one hand while the other fell to the root of his own cock.

Of course I knew what the problem was; I just didn't want to say it so directly, 'Tu n'peux t'sortir, c'est ça?'

That was it. He stopped moving, and pressed his cheek on my shoulder. His skin was hot like in fever.

I regained some sobriety and looked up. My eyes met those of another man outside the little window in the door.

The look in these eyes were disgusting me.

I left him an emotionless smile, and looked down at the little guy who was still desperately trying to get out, just like how much he tried to get in.

'Prends ton temps.' I said, the head of my cock still dripping.

He moaned, 'Je me...J'suis coincé...'

I bet he would burst into tears if I said one more word, whatever it was. But if he kept on like this, not to mention I would be drained again and get awfully pregnant within a few hours, my hole wouldn't be able to take it anymore. Certainly, I could tell him to drain himself so that he would be able to get out, but considering how greedy he still was, heaven knows how long it would take.

Having struggled for another ten minutes or so, the boy went mad, too frantic to stay cool for anything.

He gave me a look.

I didn't pay him much attention. This was why I'd always avoided sex in heat even I wanted it like crazy - I was feeling terrible at that moment, and my body was entirely emptied and tired out.

Suddenly, he shoved in once again, harder, rougher and more forceful than before. I almost screamed. I wanted to ask him what the heck he was doing, but no full word could fall out of my lips. He was scratching, biting, growling like a beast; I wondered how much dopamine he had taken to have this strength. The pain was killing me, meanwhile keeping me more clear-minded than ever.

Too much that I felt fire boiling my blood in all the veins.

This feeling is back.

This is insane.

I'm pinned up against the bathroom wall by Ciarán's strong hands, his full length thrusting in and out of me so rapidly I don't even have enough time to gasp. My back is banging constantly on the cold, wet, rock-hard tiles. Water is flowing down, hot.

I close my eyes, half to block out the water, half that I don't want to see the scene. Not at all. I admit that Ciarán is fit, SO FUCKING FIT, but this is not the right way, right place, or right time to show it off to me.

'Ugh!' He gives a sudden squeeze on the side of my waist, and by instinct I duck aside - My legs are around his back, and I almost fall over. Ciarán catches me with one arm, presses me rudely back against the cool, wet wall, and wraps my cock with the free hand.

The touch is strange, and my cheeks are heated like burning. I don't know if it's that he wants to take some strength from my cock to keep on or what, but he's definitely grabbing it too tight. I want to scream, but he blocks my mouth with a rough, biting kiss.

'Hmm...no...ugh...' I groan between his lips, and my protest only turns him on even more. The only thing I can probably feel lucky about is that he's much more skillful than the poor alpha boy, and I'm pretty sure he knows how to properly get himself out. Betas don't have that crazy knot anyway.

His hand begins stroking back and forth. 'Huh...Ngh - Hmm...' He refused to part our lips. This will be the second orgasm if I come and again, and I haven't had dinner yet. Plus, damn it, the Gold Reserve I had hasn't really kept me drunk for long.

I can't say I'm sober, though. My mind is all blank, and my arse is filled once again with this beta guy's sticky sperm as I ejaculate with a loud cry for the second time all over his chest, and it's mixed with the liquid I released a few minutes ago.

He pushes forward a few more times, then pulls out and puts my legs down, bending over to lick my tip.

'Ah...Ugh...No...not again, just...' I try to control my breath, sounding like pleading, inside scolding myself for being such a wreck, '...just don't...'

He looks up, tongue still moving around.

The brutal desire in his eyes is fading.

He slowly gets up and turns off the water.

'Taste yourself.' He whispers as he leans in and slips his tongue in my mouth with unexpected gentleness. His lips are warm, so is his skin.

It feels weirdly and very abnormally nice, so calm and relaxing, this man standing this close in front of me like a shelter, forming a small space for just the two of us, letting little light in.

Don't get me wrong. I know who I am, and I know who I'm kissing. I always do.

I put a hand on his smooth chest, slowly pushing him away with a little force. 'Hmm...' He groans to the final loss of touch, but still watches me get out, dry myself, put on the neat clothes and leave with no word. I don't even know how I have the strength to complete all the movements without a stumble.

I grab a Cherry Coke on my way back to the studio, and call Richard.

'Hey.' He doesn't have me wait for long.

'Hi, Richie.' I take a pause, 'I miss you.'

He giggles.

'I'm coming home tonight.'

'He lets you go?'

'I don't care.'

'But I can't pick you up. I have a show out there.'

'It's alright. Good luck, by the way.'

'Cheers.'

It's the awkward silence again.

'What again this time?' Richard eventually asks, 'You just called less than an hour ago.'

'He's gone too far.'

'Are you okay?'

'Quite, yeah.'

'You should be thankful in a way for what he did 4 years ago.'

'Ah oui?'

'Yup. Or you'd be in bigger trouble now.'

I sigh. 'Anyway, I don't wait for you for dinner then?'

'Alright. See ya.'

'Hmm, see ya.'

I gather my belongings, stuff them in the old Nissan, and drive down this road called Ballybetagh.

I'm leaving the paintings for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! (They finally had sex omg omg omg I'm so happy and so excited!!) I'm really sorry for the slow updates. I'm in my terminal year so I'm pretty busy. Just completed the first round of NCEE practise tests so I have a little time for this. Anyway hope you enjoyed it, and thanks a mill for the hits and kudos!  
> At first I decided to let Aron drive a Santana 2000, because I'm very familiar with this model. The father of my best friend at primary school (and still one of my besties now) has a Santana 2000 and often gave me a ride. But then I realised that this model was very rare in Europe, so I decided on Altima which is Nissan's best selling model.  
> The bands I mentioned are all very good! I especially love HomeTown and the Vamps, but the rest are also great.  
> Brendan's red shirt is from the famous second Stendan kiss scene in the cellar. When I was beta'ing this work, [sszdyl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sszdyl) showed me [a BatSuper fic](http://1021437959.lofter.com/post/1e19a4fe_b8a9d29) where the scent of Bruce is whiskey, and I thought it fitted Brendan very well too!  
> I wrote that Ste was from Manchester, but it's not in the series. Actually Kieron is from Eccles in Salford, Greater Manchester.  
> The turquoise shirt that Ciarán was wearing was a reference of _Shame_. I remember seeing a gifset on Tumblr where Michael was wearing a turquoise shirt (The shirt was actually blue, but the editor modified the colours and it was 100 times better than original).  
>  There are references of [Kevin Breel's TED talk](https://www.ted.com/talks/kevin_breel_confessions_of_a_depressed_comic). Kevin is a stand-up comedian who suffered from depression, and I have redone his speech for the English presentation of my terminal year in high school. I really love what he said and the fact that he spoke it out!  
> About the dream of becoming a rock star, it's a reference of Kian Egan's confession in Westlife's autobiography _Our Story_. Kian wanted to be a rock singer when he was little and he loved Metallica. I don't really listen to them though lol. But I do like Tokio Hotel!  
>  When I wrote 'if this happened in a film, then okay, I'm looking incredibly sexy', it's a reference to _Korea_ , a film that Andrew played in 1995. There's a scene where his character Eamon rushes to the house of the Morans in the heavy rain at night, which was really cute.  
> 'Ciarán is an exception' is...kind of accidental, I can say. There's a line in _Mon Ange_ by Jena Lee that says 'sois ma belle déception', but for a long time I thought it was 'sois ma belle exception', so initially I wanted to refer to this lyric. Then I found out I misheard it, but I didn't change the sentence.  
>  Next chapter will be in French, but I can't change the language of one single chapter so it'll still be shown as written in English.


	2. De L'Ombre Et De La Lumière

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oubliez le passé. C'est Paris, et c'est la fête.  
> Inspirez. Expirez. C'est l'histoire d'un gars qui s'appelle Jim, ou Jimmie, comme on veut. Le gars est rentré.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Premièrement, voilà, on commence Chapitre II (en français!!)! Je suis vraiment vraiment excitée (et nerveuse) de l'écrire et je ne sais pas pourquoi...Bref, dans ce chapitre, il y aura plus de Richard/Jim, et en fait il y a un petit fait de Richard que je ne vais pas encore révéler. Et en plus, je n'ai appris le français que pendant un an et demi quand je l'ai écrit, donc ça peut être un peu bizzare et maladroit je crois. Désolée!  
> For the English version, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6821704).  
> PS C'est ma 18e anniversaire aujourd'hui!  
> Beta'd on 14 June 2017.

#### PARTIE IV

You won't be the end of me. If you were the one you wouldn't hurt me so bad.

\- Westlife·How To Break A Heart

* * *

La nuit n'a jamais changé.

Ça me rappelle de la nuit il y a sept ans, aussi noire, aussi tranquille, et avec le même secret - enfin, dans un certain sens, le même.

J'avais réfléchi longtemps. Cette famille, pour moi, n'était qu'une maison, un lieu où je pouvais rester. Il n'y avais jamais une soirée où personne ne se fâchait pas. Mes parents se chamaillaient sur les moindres problèmes chaque jour, quand mon père oublia de bouillir de l'eau, quand ma mère passa une mauvaise journée dans le bureau, quand mes grandparents ajoutèrent trop de sal ou d'huile dans les plats, quand la femme de ménage mal plaça des chaises, peu importe s'il y avait quelque chose à voir avec eux. Par conséquence, j'évite toujours délibérément de parler de famille, et petit à petit, cette zone interdite a étendu à des articles, des romans, de la musique, et des œuvres de ce sujet. Je détestait la façon dont ma mère parlait à mon père comme donner des ordres à un esclave. J'ai la mémoire très claire des soirs où j'écoutais en secret leurs disputes dans la salle de bain, et les échos du bruit stridente hantaient dans mes rêves pendant plusieures années après. Une fois, quatre jours après ma 12e anniversaire, je me cachais dans l'eau chaude sous la pomme de douche et écoutais aux paroles de mes parents à voix criardes, comme toujours. Soudainement, tout devint silencieux. Je n'eus rien d'idée de ce qui s'était passé. La première pensée était qu'ils s'étaient tués. Ce n'est pas une blague, j'avais été prêt à voir leurs corps avant de sortir, et j'avais même préparé la parole pour le dire à mes grandparents. Quel dommage qu'ils étaient vivants sain et sauf.

La nuit où je quittai la maison, ils avaient eu une querelle terrible sur quelque chose de très peu important dont je ne me souviens pas du tout, et je me cachais simplement dans ma chambre, les rideaux fermés, mon dos contre la porte. Je n'ai pas pu les entendre très bien - chanceux pour moi - mais je me rappelle de distinguer que ma mère a dit, «...Depuis on s'est marriés et j'ai habité avec ta famille...Est-ce qu'on va continuer comme ça...J'en ai assez, cette vie...» Et bien, elle pensa que s'ils se parlaient en français, je ne comprendrais rien. Mais si. J'ai après tout un père né en France. Je n'ai pas reconnu le reste de la dispute. Je me suis écouté sangloter et mes cils se sont mouillis. Je fixai mon regard sur l'horloge, essayant de ne pas me soucier de tout ça. Dix minutes plus tard, je sentis des coups violents et fâchés par derrière. Je sauta sur mes pieds, m'en tirant de justesse d'être fracassé par la porte qui fut ouverte brusquement.

C'était ma mère.

«Do you still do your homework or what?» Cela ne sembla pas vraiment une question. Elle n'a pas même attendu ma réponse, «Go and put your things away if you don't.»

«A moment.» Je murmurai, même si j'avais en fait rien à faire ici.

«Once I get angry and YOU flee the first.» Elle continua comme si elle avait été blessé, et je pouvais réciter sa parole suivante dans mon esprit, elle le fit chaque semaine, «I feed this family and raise you up all these years, and I don't even seem to have the right to be a little angry.» J'ai eu rien à dire. Je n'ai pas même pris la peine de la regarder.

«Stop being like this, now.» Elle claqua la porte et partit.

J'y restai pendant dix minutes de plus.

Ce minuit-là, avant de m'en aller, j'ai laissé dans la chambre de mes défunts grand-parents une petite note où j'ai dit pourquoi je suis parti, où je serais allé, que je leur aimais, que j'étais reconnaissant pour tout ce qu'ils m'avaient fait, et qu'il me manquaient toujours.

Richard était à Paris, au Marais. Tous dans cette ville étaient nouveaux pour moi, un garçon de 16 ans. «La fête mobile», c'était ce qu'elle était, et c'est ce qu'elle est encore. Sortant de l'aéroport, je mets des écouteurs et augmente _Paris Sera Toujours Paris_ par Zaz, essayant de retrouver les sentiments que j'ai eus avant de mon départ il y a cinq ans. La ligne 1 du métro reste toujours tellement vieux et sale. Je me dirige le long des rues que je prenais, je cherche les gens à qui je saluais, j'écoute la langue que j'entendais - Mais Paris n'est sûrement pas toujours Paris. Tout change, TOUT.

Je rentre à l'appartement où j'habitais avec Richard. Il tenait les pièces propres quand j'étais absent, et a rempli partout sa senteur de fraises à crème de vanille.

Je suis retourné. C'est ma seconde maison, Paris, si celle à Dublin compte.

Je ne sais pas quand Richard est revenu. Je ne suis pas encore habitué à dormir dans la nuit, mais n'ayant ni vraiment dormi ni resté éveillé le soir dernier, je ne me souviens de presque rien ce matin. Richard est endormi à côté de moi. Je me relève et m'habille comme d'habitude, et me maquille enfin après réfléchir. Les eye-liners et les fards à paupières denses, bizzarement, me donnent des sens de la sécurité.

«Et voilà!» Damien, le jeune barman, me salue quand j'entre Le Wood une fois encore après cinq ans, «Jimmie, tu reviens!»

«Oui,» je souris quand on se fait la bise, «ça fait longtemps.»

«Alors t'étais où?»

«En Irlande.»

«Ah, l'Irlande! C'est belle, non?»

«Oui, très belle.» Je commande des finger sandwichs, un salade César et un mocha, et continue, «La pluie, les étoiles, les fleurs dans St Stephen's Green -»

«Mais pourquoi tu rentres?» Avant que je ne réponde, il ajoute vite, «Je veux dire, j'suis content de te revoir, mais tant c'est bon là, pourquoi t'es quitté?»

«Paris me manque.»

«C'est tout?»

«Oui, c'est tout.»

Il se tait.

Je ne suis même pas Français, mais j'ai dit «Paris me manque», et c'est, dans un sens, vrai. Je peux être honnête dans cette ville. Enfin, sauf à Belleville, visiblement, mais non plus à Dublin. Ici, je suis ce qui je suis, et je l'aime.

Je finis mon brunch et rentre dans l'appartement. Richard a pris son petit-déj, comme toujours.

Il me jète un regard. «What did everyone say?»

«They weren't so surprised as I thought they'd be.»

«Tant pis.»

«Yeah.»

Je me déshabille en parlant, et je sens les yeux de Richard sur moi, attentifs, avec une étincelle bizzare.

«Qu'est-ce que tu veux?» Je lui jète un coup d'œil.

Il saisit le t-shirt dans ma main que je vais mettre et le laisse tomber sur sol. «T'as mis trop d'eye-liners.» Il sourit.

«So?»

«I like it.»

Je roule mes yeux.

«Gimme the tee.»

«It's not even your size.»

«I've been wearing it for ages and now you tell me this.»

«Nah. Mais c'est trop large.»

«Alors?»

«Jète-le!»

«Et qu'est-ce que je porte?»

«Des corsets.» Il glousse.

«Casse-toi.»

Il tique malicieusement.

Juste au moment où je me courbe pour ramasser le t-shirt, une main se place sur mon ventre, avec un bras autour de ma taille, et je suis jeté violentement au lit. Je me trouve s'allongeant sur mon dos, face à face avec Richard dont les yeux brillent.

«Mais non.» Il sourit.

Nos lèvres se touchent. À ce moment précis, je me suis rendu compte à tel point qu'il me manque, que cette sensation et ce sentiment me manquent. Il me semble que toutes ces années que j'ai vécues sans lui à ma côté soient vides, tout vides.

Son baiser est aussi doux que toujours. Je ferme mes yeux. Ses mains sont chaudes autours de mes joues, caressant lentement, mais je peux sentir son impatience. Il mordille ma lèvre inférieure, et - «Hmm...» Je soulage un gémissement tremblant - et merde, ça l’excite sans aucun doute. Il glisse sa langue dedans, mettant tous ses poids sur moi, et libère une main pour se déshabiller. Il est tellement désireux; ma respiration est complètement dérangée, et j’ai besoin d’air, mais je veux en même temps tenir le contact.

Je gémis dans la fente entre nos lèvres. Richard lâche ma bouche, un peu à contrecœur, et suit le contour de mon cou vers le bas pour mâcher la peau de mes clavicules.

«Richie...» Il lèche mes mamelons, les doigts montant le long de mon éréction énorme et humide, s'amusant de faires des circles sur la tête.

«You know what I want?» Chuchote-t-il près de mon oreille, ses souffles brûlant.

«I...Ugh!» Son gland touche mon entrejambe.

«Answer me.» Il s’attarde à l’entrée.

«Please, Rich...»

«Answer me, and I'll give you what you want.»

J'ai chaud. Je veux parler, je veux le répondre bien que je n'aie rien à dire, mais lorsque je me sépare les lèvres, je ne peux lâcher que des gémissements faibles. Je vais exploser dans ce feu.

«Ugh, fuck...» Je commence à me caresser, «Rich...»

Il ne peut pas rester dehors pendant longtemps, après tout. Son longueur entier force dedans, et je suis poussé à l'orgasme presque immédiatement. Mes voisins ont sans aucun doute tout entendu.

Peu importe.

Je me sens trop bien pour regretter du tout de mourir comme ça.

Et toi dans le duplex près de la rivière de Glencullen, chéri, tu devrais l'avoir tout vu.

 

#### PARTIE V

Why can't you hold me in the streets? Why can't I kiss you on the dance floor? I wish that we could be like that, why can't we be like that? 'Cuz I'm yours.

\- Little Mix·Secret Love Song

* * *

J’aime le Marais. Ici, chaque pavé a sa propre magie. Ce que je préfère, pourtant, est simplement d'observer les gens en dessous, comme un aigle, par ma fenêtre. Les gens ordinaires - Ils sont toujours si ridiculement adorables, non?

Cependant, je ne sais pas quoi faire ici. Pendant mon premier séjour, j'avais un contrat avec certains mecs locaux, mais ce n'était pas assez satisfaisant. J'ai quitté le travail à Pine Forest, à la surprise de tous, et je n'ai plus envie d'être artiste - Si je l'ai été du tout, enfin. Certes, je prends plaisir à peindre et tout, mais pas comme un métier. Une fois que la liquide devient le but, ce qu'on fait, même si on pense qu'on l'aime encore, se détériora.

Effectivement, je n'ai rien besoin de travailler si c'est juste pour gagner ma vie. L'argent que Richard possède est plus de nécessaire pour nous deux. De temps à autre, il fait des spectacles, lui permettant de toucher un peu de salaire exceptionnel pour des verres.

Alors, maintenant, on demanderait, «Pourquoi Richard ne t'a pas aidé pendant la faillite?»

Bonne question.

Je ne lui l'ai pas dit. Peu importe à quel point qu'on soit intimes, je n'aimerais pas qu'il le sache. Ça n'a rien à voir avec la confiance. On aime quelqu'un, et on en cache les choses gênantes, c'est tout. Particulièrement si c'est TROP gênant. À parler franc, j'avais été prévu une forte baisse, mais être un failli était beaucoup plus robuste que mon attente. Et ça, c'était une des raisons pour laquelle je ne me suis pas bien préparé pour ce qui m'avait passé chez Ciarán.

Richard croit, donc, que je restais à Dublin simplement pour l'art, et puis je suis rentré parce que Ciarán a franchit la ligne. Alors tout compte fait, c'est pas tout à fait un mensonge.

De toute façon, on vie dans des mensonges, n'est-ce pas?

C'est la veille de Noël. Pendants ce temps le plus vif de l'année, on voit partout des visages ravis, des lumières colorées, des familles - des familles ensembles et joyeuses - Y a-t-il un moment, un moment très court, où on se sent fatigué de toutes les gloires de ce monde?

Richard est toujours pressé pendant ce temps. J'en suis bien habitué; j'ai passé des Noëls seul depuis 18 ans. Et maintenant, il n'y a que moi dans cet appartement, écoutant la musique de la fête de quelques voisins là-haut.

«Rich?» Appelle la voix d'une fille.

C'est Kitty Riley.

«Yeah?» Je me dirige vers la porte ouverte.

«You don't come over and party?»

«Nah.»

«I mean, I know you don't like these, say, loud music and -»

«Why, I do.»

«Well - But it's Christmas! I mean, everyone's singing and dancing tonight -»

«But that doesn't mean I have to.»

«Well then, elle roule ses yeux, happy Christmas.»

«Happy Christmas to you too.»

Je me souviens des Noëls avec mes parents quand j'étais petit. Ils ne disputaient pas encore trop, et chaque année, le dîner était l'événement le plus grand et le plus éxcitant pour tous. On mettrait un arbre de Noël au centre du salon, et moi et mes cousins trouveraient des cadeaux au-dessous. Il y avait toujours une foule dans la maison, et moi, à l’âge de 7 ou 8 ans, ne pouvais voir que des jambes et des pieds.

Dès que j'eus 10 ans, tout changea, pour des raisons que je ne comprendrai jamais.

Ce n'est pas triste du tout d'y penser, pourtant.

La nuit est tombée, et je décide de me coucher tôt ce soir, puisque je n'ai vraiment rien à faire. Je répète, je suis FATIGUÉ des visages heureux et cette atmosphère de fête dans chaque brique des immeubles.

Je prends une douche brève. Puis, merde, mon portable sonne. Sans me sécher, je me couvre avec une serviette de bain et y réponds.

«Hello? Is that Mr Aron-Jake Sarsfield?»

Je connais cette voix. «Yeah.»

«Oh, um...Happy Christmas, sir.»

Je ne peux m'empêcher de sourire. «Thanks, Mark.»

Il ne m'a pas oublié. Au moins, mon numéro est encore dans son annuaire.

«What made you think of me?» Je demande.

«I...I don't know, sir-»

«You can leave that "sir" out now, you know. Call me Aron if you like.»

Il fait un petit rire. «I just came back from Latin America. You should've been there; it was amazing!»

«Yeah, I know. I've passed there once. On a helicopter.»

«That's cool. But you've got to walk on the ground and feel it; it was really different.»

«I'll note that. And how do you feel back home?»

«I really missed the Christmas lights. I'm on O'Connell Street now and it's brilliant - Where are you now, s - Aron?»

C'est, honnêtement, un peu étrange de l'entendre appeler ce prénom. Étrangement...sexy. «I was taking a shower.»

«Oh, well...Sorry.»

«Nah, it's alright.»

«But why do you take a shower this early? You're not going to bed at this hour, are you?»

«Well, I am, yeah.»

«Are you sick or something?»

«No, I'm good. I just WANNA go to bed.»

«But don't you usually stay up until next morning?»

«Those were the old days. I'm adjusting to a NORMAL schedule.»

«Jesus, you...haven't read those health mags, have you?»

«No, of course not.»

«Well...I wanted to ask you to come over, but if -»

«I'm in Paris, man.»

«Oh, well, great! Are there lights on the Eiffel Tower?»

«I...guess so, yeah. I don't know. I didn't go check it.»

«You can't see it from your window?»

«No, not here.»

«Well, okay, never mind.»

Je l'ai déçu, oui. Je peux imaginer l'air dans ses yeux bleus. Il n'avait jamais dit «never mind».

«Is Nico with you?» Je ne sais pas même pourquoi demander.

Il est silencieux pendant un instant avant de murmurer timidement, «Yeah.»

«I bet he didn't go travel with you.»

«No, he didn't. But you know, I was...really afraid he would...Like...He sings in front of so many people, and he's really got a fanbase, and among them there ARE some really nice guys and...»

«Why didn't he go with you?»

«He said he's got some other business. I didn't ask more about it.»

«Pity.»

«Yeah, he actually WANNA go. But say,» il lève sa voix un peu, «you don't go anywhere? I mean, parties, concerts or something?»

«I'm not really interetsed. They know each other and I don't know any of them. You know how that feels.»

«Then you just stay home?»

«Yeah. It's great, you know. I've spent Christmas Eves like this for years.»

«Maybe you can come over next year?»

«Maybe.»

«If you have time in November, we can go to the show on Grafton Street together. Nico said he might get invited to one of the concerts next year. To sing, I mean.»

«I hope so. But I've got to wait and see.»

«Then...that's it? Gotta go, I'm afraid.»

«Okay, happy Christmas.'

'You too, Aron.'

J'ai menti. J'ai mon plan. Je suis désolé, petit. Quand à Nicky, j'ai peur que Mark ne sache pas qui en réalité il sort avec, mais lui raconter le fait pourrait le tuer. C'est un secret très dangereux.

Une autre question entre ma tête: Kitty Riley sait que je suis ici. Elle sait que je suis parti, mais je ne l'ai pas dit que je reviendrais. Non, c'est pas que je ne l'aime pas; elle est une fille adorable et gentille. Mais surtout, il y a quelque chose qu'elle n'est pas censée savoir, et qu'elle sait. En fait, ça m'achale plutôt que me faire inquiéter.

En plus, elle m'appelle RICH.

Avant mon départ, pour elle, j'étais Jim ou Jimmie; maintenant, je suis Rich. Rich Brook. C'est impossible qu'elle pense que je suis Richard et que Jim est encore à Dublin; Richard est en tournée CHAQUE Noël, et elle ne connaît personne avec le nom Richard Brook auparavant - pour autant que je sache. C'est aussi impossible qu'elle a entendu les bruits qu'on a fait en faisant l'amour; elle habite dans un autre immeuble.

Elle doit connaître quelqu'un que je ne connais pas. Si c'est vrai, Kitty, je serai vraiment désolé, mais ce qu'il faut avoir lieu aura lieu à la fin.

De l'autre côté de la rue, deux garçons d’embrassent sous la neige. Je ne les ai jamais rencontrés, et pourtant, dans un coin de mon esprit, je souhaite que je sois un d'entre eux. Si las que je sois du bonheur des autres, je souhaite qu'un jour, Richard puisse m'embrasser comme ça. Je ne peux que SOUHAITER. C'est destiné à un rêve éternel.

Je m'allonge sur le lit. Le côté de Richard est froid. Je le recouvre avec l'édredon.

Joyeux Noël à moi-même.

 

#### PARTIE IV

Des machines bizzares, des cahiers saturés. Là, c'était ma première guitare, tu vois.

\- Calogero·C'Est D'Ici Que Je Vous Écris

* * *

C'est déjà Novembre. Je ne suis pas allé à Dublin comme Mark a espéré, et il n'a pas demandé pourquoi. Je l'ai déçu, définitement, et ça pique un peu.

Un type m'a trouvé hier et m'a prié de lui rendre un service. Bien sûr, je n'avais pas la bonne humeur pour ça, mais je ne nie pas qu'il était un garçon très mignon. Il avait un ton poli et un peu timide, un sourire sincère et joli, et des yeux INNOCENTS. S'il avait voulu me faire desamis, ça irait; mais il voulait mon aide, et c'est toujours un non.

À ma surprise, il est revenu. J'entre Le Wood, et il m'attend là.

'T'as un ami là, je crois.' Damien me dit en le regardant.

'C'est pas un ami.'

'Mais il a l'air gentil.'

'Oui, mais c'est pas un ami.'

Je ne suis pas sûr qu'il comprenne.

Le gars se lève et m'approche. 'Hi.' Il sourit nerveusement.

'Easy, easy. I'm here for bruch; I won't eat you.'

Il lâche un petit rire. 'So what do you -'

'I said no, Harry.'

'No chance at all?'

'No.'

'But please, Mr -'

'If you don't stop, I'll go.'

Il me regard avec ces yeux clairs. Puis, il me prend au poignet, 'But you haven't eaten anything yet.'

Jeez. Il est déterminé de me faire rester.

'Right,' je soupire, m'installant bien, 'you want me to take you back to Dublin?'

'Yeah. And I'd love it if you take me to Ste.'

J'appuis mon index contre la tempe, 'Do you just want him THAT much?'

Le garçon rougit. Il baisse sa tête et sourit, sans répondre.

'And MUST you come to ME?'

Il avale. 'You're...I know you may have heard this a thousand times, but you're the most powerful person in Western Europe, and I NEED to find Ste.'

'I'll take that compliment,' je ris, 'even it makes my eardrums callous.'

'So...that's a yes?' Il penche vers l'avant.

Je soupire, 'I didn't say that.' Évitant la déception dans ses yeux, j'ajoute, 'But I can think about it. If your reward is satisfying enough, you may get what you need.'

'Well, that's...it's really nice of you, thanks a mill!' Il s'exclamer en tripotant ses doigt nerveusement, 'And...um, what do you want as reward?'

'Well, I'll need your assistance at some point in the future, and I'd like you to be there when I need you.'

'What kind of assistance?'

'I can't tell you specifically now, but it won't be the fighting and killing sort of mission, so you'll be back home safe and sound, I assure you.'

Il fixe son regard à la table. Je n'espère pas vraiment son acceptance, mais il semble qu'il le prend assez sérieusement. Finalement, il s'éclaircit sa gorge et fait, 'Look, if I take the conditions, you PROMISE to take me to Ste, right?'

'Yes, of course, I promise.'

Il incline lentement, mettant ses condes sur la table.

'Deal?'

'Well...yeah, deal.'

'So that's it,' je finis le reste de mon mocha et me lève, 'call me when you're ready to go.' Je tapote dans sa main la petite note avec mon numéro, et disparais.

En fait, j'avais vu ce gamin, Harry Thompson. Il ne fréquente pas Le Wood, alors quand je l'y ai vu, j'ai su que quelque chose d'amusante s'est passée. Il m'a demandé si je pouvais le trouver un jet privé ou genre et l'accompagner en route pour Dublin. Il voulait voir Steven Hay où qu'il soit, et quand je l'ai dit qu'il était avec Brendan Brady dans un pub qui s'appelle Johnnie Fox's, il était aux anges. Ils se sont rencontrés depuis lycée, et ils s'aimaient. Puis, Ste a quitté Manchester pour Dublin, tandis que Harry a choisi de rentrer à Hollyoaks et prendre une pause. Au début, ils se restaient en contact; mais au fil du temps, Harry avait de moins en moins de nouvelles de Ste. Enfin, il y a à peuprès deux ans, il a perdu tout contact avec lui. Je l'écoutais, et j'ai compris à quel degré qu'il lui manquait depuis tout le temps. Je lui ai raconté que Ste allait très bien avec Brendan à Dublin, et il y avait une nuance de joie, peur et tendresse dans ses iris azures. J'ai commencé à comprendre la crainte de Mark. _On dit que le temps est ton meilleur ami, que tout fini toujours par tomber dans l'oubli._ C'est peut-être vrai.

Rentrant dans la chambre, je vois la coupure du journal d'avant-hier attachée à la lettre que cher M Crayhill, mon ami à Londre, m'avait envoyée. ARSENIC FOUND IN DUBLIN ART GALLERY PAINTINGS, dit le titre. Il dit que des arsenics trioxydes ont été détectés dans les peintures donnée par Aron-Jake Sarsfield, l'artiste qui avait été accusé de fraude commerciale il y a un ans et demi. Il dit aussi que l'artiste a laissé son testament dans le studio lui loué par Ciarán O'Toole, et on soupçonne qu'il s'a suicidé, mais le corps n'est pas encore trouvé. Dans la lettre, M Crayhill m'a raconté comment il avait fait sauter un autre gratte-ciel. C'est plat, franchement, et pas nécessaire du tout.

Visiblement, je ne me suis pas suicidé. J'ai simplement écrit un grand 'DEAD IS THE NEW SEXY' sur le mur avec un pistolet à peinture. Et oui, j'ai collé une note sur la porte du duplex, y écrit 'slán' et signé 'J'. Quand la nuit tombait, j'abandonnai la voiture dans Gaurdini Uibh Eachach, et je suis plutôt sûr qu'on pense que j'y ai enterré les équipement en plus de moi-même. Il leur faudra une éternité pour les trouver.

Personne ne me reconnaît pas en France. Pas comme l'artiste 'mort', je veux dire. En tout cas, je partirai bientôt. Le Noël est proche, Harry va m'appeler dans quelque jours.

Je ne m'inquiète pas du tout non plus d'être reconnu à Dublin. J'ai juste besoin d'un autre maquillage, et c'est un jeu d'enfant.

Une semaine plus tard, Harry me demande si on peut se mettre en route.

Je verouille les fenêtres et les portes de toutes les pièces. Richard est chez un des ses amis au théâtre; je lui laisse un message, et amène Harry dans mon jet pour le retour à Dublin.

'He's working in a pub,' Harry murmure soudainement après presque trente minutes de silence, 'Ste.'

Il ne parle à personne. Ses yeux ne se fixent sur rien. Malgré tout ce temps, la première fois qu'on s'est rencontrés, j'ai remarqué immédiatement sur lui le même senteur que Brendan porte - Le senteur de Ste. Ça ferra une très belle scène, ces deux ensembles, je me suis dit.

'Who else is there?' Il me demande, 'Apart from Brendan, I mean.'

'No one.'

'Not even Cheryl?'

Cheryl? Cheryl qui? Selon l'expression sur le visage de Harry, c'est une femme qu'il connaît bien, et qu'il pense que je connais bien aussi. C'est quelqu'un qui faut être là mais est absent. Mais toute façon, je suis sûr qu'il n'y a personne s'appellant Cheryl parmi les personnels chez Johnnie Fox. 'No, she’s not there.'

'That's weird. She said she's gonna be staying with Brendan.'

C'est ça. Elle est probablement la sœur de Brendan, vu que celui-ci est accouplé avec Ste. Et elle allait rester avec son frère, ça veut dire qu'elle l'a dit avant de partir - partir de Hollyoaks, possiblement. Ou il y a une autre version un peu plus dramatique de cette histoire: Cheryl est l’ex de Brendan; elle l'aime encore, et elle veut qu'il revienne. 'I don't know, but she's obviously not there. I haven't seen her anywhere.'

'Brendan didn't say where she was?'

'No. Neither did Ste.'

'But that's his sister! They were really close, and she got on well with Ste too.'

Merde. Ce garçon lit mes pensées. Il me donne tout ce que je veux savoir, oui, mais il SAIT ce qu'à me dire. Il sait peut-être que je ne connais pas Cheryl. Autrement, il ne me raconterait pas tant sur la sœur du petit ami de son amour. 'Ste didn't tell me about YOU either.' Je tente de changer le sujet.

Il fait une petite moue, 'I understand.'

'I'm sorry,' je vois que ce le fait mal, 'I wanna say that it's normal that he didn't talk about Cheryl. He didn't tell me about anyone.'

'He's just like that.'

'Oh, well.' Ce mec n'est pas encore très prêt pour cette conversation, visiblement. Si Ste est toujours comme ça, il n'est pas bizzare du tout qu'il ne m'a pas raconté des histoires d'autres.

'We were in high school,' dit-il d'une voix calme, 'but we weren't close at first. Ste's a bad boy, picking up girls and all. Then one day, it rained and my umbrella was broken, and he sent me home. I didn't know why he did it, but at that moment I thought, Oh, he's so nice. But he didn't mention it the next day. I thanked him again that morning, and he was like, Nah, that's nothing - but you know, he litterally walked all the way back home with me, holding his umbrella above me, and he lived in the opposite direction! Then one day, he called me to the garden behind our building, and he said, "Harry Thompson, I've been watching you for half a year." And I was like, No, wait, what, is he from the Hydra?' Il ne peut pas résister de glousser, et secoue la tête. Then he went, "I like you."' Il prend une pause, rougissant légèrement, 'I didn't know what to say. I mean, I like him too, but I felt like it's...I don't know, but it's not just, like, you like your buddy. It's just like, you want him to see you do all the cool things, you want him to know when you're feeling bad and you want his comfort, and when he can't see you, you feel sad and a bit lost, but you fear that sticking around him all day long makes him uncomfortable or makes it too obvious.' Il soupire, 'You know what I mean, yeah?'

'I...well, sort of, yeah.' Non, je ne comprends pas. À l'école, j'étais toujours seul; les mecs ne m'intimidaient pas, mais ils ne me faisaient des amis non plus. Quand je les souriais et saluais, ils me souriaient et saluaient; quand j'avais besoin d'aide, ils m'aidaient; quand j'étais loué, ils m'applaudissaient. Mais c'était tout. Je n'existais pas dans LEUR monde.

Harry me fixe son regard, doutant que je puisse vraiment comprendre. Honnêtement, s'il a raconté son histoire à Mark, il se sentirait mieux que ça. Mark comprends. Il a connu tout ces sentiment qui me manquent. 'You do?' Harry me demande, 'Who was it? May I know?'

'No.' Dis-je avec froideur.

'Oh, well, okay. Never mind.' Il baisse la tête, souriant.

La silence pleine l'espace, une fois encore.

'I'd like to know more about you.' Harry se lève et vient s'asseoir à côté de moi.

J'échappe son regard. Quelle version dois-je le dire? 'Nothing interesting.'

'People always say so about themselves.'

'I meant it.'

'Oh, no, you don't. You have a childhood, a family -'

'I don't have any family.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought -'

'I'm not an orphan, don't feel bad about it.'

'Then what happened?'

Je soupire. 'My parents quarrelled all the time, with each other, with me, with my grandparents.'

'You didn't call the police?'

'Oh, man, you know I still needed their money.'

'Is that all your...your parents and grandparents meant to you?'

'My parents, yes. My grandparents were nice. They loved me.'

'So it wasn't all bad, right?'

'They died when I was 15.'

'Oh, sorry.'

'It's okay.'

'And then what?'

'I left the house.'

'Oh no. You just abandoned everything and left?'

'Yep.'

'And your parents didn't go searching for you?'

'I don't know.'

'Oh.'

'Told you there's nothing interesting.'

'Sounds like you're hiding something.'

Je ricane. 'You're not that threatening.'

Harry penche sa tête sur le côté. Il écarte ses lèvres, et les ferme. Finalement, il demande avec caution, 'Do all Irish people have difficulty pronouncing "th"?'

'Not all. Many, though.'

'But how?' Il ne peut empêcher le sourire au coin de sa bouche, 'You just bite your own tongue, it's easy.'

'You know, if you say this to a random Irish guy, you may get a good punch.'

'I know,' il sourcille, 'so I say it to YOU.'

'It's a compliment?'

'Yep.'

Je fais lentement oui de la tête. Le garçon me regard avec ses yeux vilaines. Au bout d'un moment, il se détourne.

J'ai compris, je pense, pourquoi Ste l'aime - ou bien, l'aimait. Je le trouve très attrayant, moi aussi. Il parle sur un ton plate mais agréable, il a cette émotion dans son regard. Il semble qu'il ne se fâche jamais, qu'il ne pleure jamais, qu'il est toujours heureux. Je l'aime autant que je le déteste.

On atterrit bientôt.

'Is there a mailbox near the pub?' Harry demande soudainement.

'Yeah, of course,' je fronce les sourcils, 'and a green telephone stand, if you wanna know.'

'I used to write to him.'

'And he never writes back.'

'No.'

'I know why.'

'Yeah?'

'But I can't tell you.'

'Wh -'

'Merci, Damien.' Je coupe la parole de Harry et m'exclamer au cockpit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merci beaucoup pour lire! Et je suis désolée que ce chapitre ait pris tant de temps pour finir car je ne pouvais pas taper les accents et les guillemets directement sur mon clavier (je savais pas qu'il y a le clavier français lol)...Et j'ai toujours des tas de devoirs. C'est le dernier chapitre avant mes CEE le 7 et 8, et puis j'irai à Jinan, et je rentrerai le 11, et peut-être je commencerai Chapitre III quelques jours plus tard.  
> 'On dit que le temps est ton meilleur ami, que tout fini toujours par tomber dans l'oubli.' vient de _L'Éclipse_ par Calogero.  
>  PS Les descriptions de la famille de Jim sont dans un sens la réalité dans ma famille (c'est pas SI grave que ce que j'ai écrit, bien sûr, ne vous inquiétez pas), et je trouve que les écrire est une très bonne façon de m'en soulager...Désolée, c'est trop d'émotion négative!


	3. Technicolour Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me?  
> How does it feel when all come to 'normal', as people would call it, with you and me like this? Be prepared for the story, sweetheart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah, Chapter III is here! Just finished it this morning, and I'm going out to meet my bestie [Mionemrys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mionemrys) in half an hour or so, so I think this time is enough for me to update one part. Here we go!

#### PART VII

But you only need the light when it's burning low, only need the sun when it starts to snow, only know you love her when you let her go. Only know you've been high when you're feeling low, only hate the road when you're missing home, only know you love her when you let her go.

\- The Passengers·Let Her Go

* * *

'Here we are.'

The cloud is thick and low, letting little light through. Though not windy, the coldness has soaked the air, and soaked my bone as well. We're in the front yard of Johnnie Fox's Pub, and Harry's looking at me, begging me to go in with him.

I open the door for him - Jeez, the handle is ice cold.

Ste is behind the bar, and Harry is just frozen there. Ste looks up, and his lips part slowly. Time seems to stop at this very moment. People are still talking, laughing, singing, drinking, but these two who are supposed to be hugging and kissing are simply numb right now.

'I'd better be off now.' I say softly beside Harry's ear.

He doesn't respond.

I walk out, closing the door carefully.

So what now?

I dial Gillian's number. Gillian Byrne, Nicky's elder sister, a lovely beta girl.

It's not her who answers. 'Hello?' A child's voice says.

'Oh, hi, Adam.' It's Nicky's 8-year-old brother, Adam McGarry Byrne, 'Is Gill there?'

'No, she's out.'

'Okay, never mind.' I need to think about how to let him know what I want, 'Does your dad still work at the Racecourse Inn?'

'Yeah, he is.'

'Okay, thank you.'

'Shall I tell Gill you called?'

'No, thanks. I'll call her some other time.'

'Okay.'

'So that's all. Have a nice day. Bye.'

'You too, sir. Bye.'

I manage it to the Racecourse Inn before dark. I'm staying for a week, till Christmas Eve. Don't get me wrong, of course I know it's a pub and that it doesn't offer rooms. Behind the Racecourse Inn lives Ms Sorrel, friend and colleague of Mr Crayhill. She's British, and she will be staying in Dublin for a few months for business. I call Gill later in the afternoon to tell her I'm fine at Ms Sorrel's place.

Ms Sorrel and Mr Crayhill both work officially as barrister, and there's certainly a reason why they don't reveal their first names. The middle-aged lady is obviously shocked that I returned at this time of the year. Still, she spared a room for me. Like many women at her age, she enjoys telling me her stories or the anecdotes she heard, how her ancestors immigrated to the British Island from Africa, how her great-grandparents and grandparents and parents fought for peace and equality, how she went to school and got liked, hated, awarded, teased, bullied, scolded and all, how she loved the sunny days in Ireland, and finally - how she always spend Christmas days with her family. Every time she reaches this part, I stop her and tell her my tales, or ask her about someone else, for example, one of her besties, Mrs Hudson. Then the conversation will focus on this aged lady and her dear tenants, and it's way more interesting.

On the afternoon of 14 December, Ms Sorrel drives down Ballybetagh Road and drops me at Johnnie Fox's. The pub's closed for Christmas. I walk slowly down Barrack Road to the duplex bu Glencullen River. The sun is setting, and the temperature falls. I didn't take anything from Paris except some necessary clothes and my phone, and here I am with nothing but a duffel bag, and only an old overcoat to keep me warm. It has started snowing, which is indeed very beautiful for this special time, but waiting here, shivering, for someone to open the door for me, I have little time to appreciate it. This situation seems familiar to me, and I remember it has taken place some two years ago. But this time, I'd rather not call Richard and stay alone under the eave.

The night is still young.

At 9:13, I see the light of a car coming close. The car goes straight into the garage, and after a while, Ciarán walks out, and there's a woman behind him. I take a longer look and recognise Ashley Dzerigian. Ciarán holds Ashley to himself, and they break into a deep, passionate kiss. Of course, I don't hide away. I watch their lips eagerly touch, I watch them biting and pushing their tongues into each other's mouth, being like this for some good ten seconds, and emotionally part. They walk slowly towards the duplex hand in hand - I have plenty of reasons to believe that they've long done the Christmas shopping.

Then they see me.

I stare straight into Ciarán's eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes.

I can see the shock and embarrassment on his face. How unprepared he is for this.

Ashley walks away, leaving Ciarán and me face to face.

I try to stop shivering, but I guess the paleness of my skin has given it out that I can't stand this cold any longer.

Ciarán looks at me for a good minute with that stupid face. Then he heads over, avoiding my eyes, and opens the door.

He holds the door for me.

I walk in straight over to the fireplace. I approach my frozen hands to the fire, and it's so warm that it hurts a little. I take a brief look around. This living room is as empty as I remember, not any better even with the Christmas decorations which, of course, includes a lovely little tree that doesn't at all look like Ciarán's choice. I decide that it was Ashley's idea. My thoughts are interrupted as I see the sassy note I left on the door still there, dusted, but not moved an inch. I stare at it for a while, then move my eyes on Ciarán.

He's been looking at me.

I get up and put a hand on the straps of my bag. Before I can pick it up, a larger, stronger, rougher hand covers mine. For one moment I want to fight back, but then I withdraw my hand. Ciarán takes me to a bedroom on the second floor next to his, carrying my bag. He places it on the floor beside the double bed, and leaves without a word.

I lean against the door frame, watching him walk away. He stops at the studio I used to stay in, opens its door and checks it, then carefully closes it and goes downstairs.

I don't know if the suicide scene I faked is cleaned.

 

#### PART VIII

Is it too late now to say sorry? 'Cuz I'm missing more than just your body.

\- Justin Bieber·Sorry

* * *

As usual, I stayed up last night. But I didn't get much sleep this morning either. When Ciarán came to wake me, I was already wide awake. He looked a bit confused, but didn't give a comment.

I break it off.

'Ciarán?' I call as he's walking out.

'Hmm?' He stands, looking back at me. I take a moment to appreciate this sight.

'What happened to my studio?'

'YOUR studio?' He turns around, facing me.

'The one I stayed in, what happened to it?'

'The house is MINE, Aron-Jake Sarsfield.'

'I asked you what happened to it.'

He sighs. 'I'm doing some cleaning.'

'Can I take a look?' I get up.

He stands at the door, watching me come close. I take that as a yes.

As soon as we enter the studio, he shuts the door, locks it, and pins me against its cold hard surface.

'Why do you come back?' He asks in a low voice.

I laugh inside. 'I...' His hand at my neck makes breathing difficult, and I sense that he's annoyed, which is not good for me, 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

It takes me a while to come up with a proper answer to this question. Then I noticed my easel beside the fireplace.

'You still keep that?' I do my best to nod at the easel.

He looks at the direction of my eyes, loosening his grip. 'Well, why not? I said I was doing some cleaning, so I just put that thing there -'

'It's called an easel.' I say rather impatiently, sparing a glance to check it out.

'Ugh, whatever.' He gives me a roll of eyes, 'But why do you come back?'

He's leaning in close, and I need space to breath. 'What...You don't - Well,' I have to admit that this hurts a little, 'I know you don't really wanna see me -'

'No! No, I don't mean that, no - Damn, no, don't get me wrong.'

'Oh, of course you do. You should see your own face when you saw me yesterday.'

'Well, I...' His hand slowly slides down my neck. 'Where have you been?'

'Paris.'

'Just Paris?'

'Yeah. Travelling isn't really my thing.'

He's silent for a few seconds. Then suddenly he goes, 'You know, if it was someone else, I wouldn't let them in.'

'I don't get it.'

'I mean - Well, I mean...You're an exception.'

'What do you mean "exception"?'

He opens his mouth, then closes it, his bright blue eyes blinking subconsciously. He avoids my stare and looks down.

I watch him attentively, convincing myself to be as patient as I can. Ciarán is a wee bit older than me, but I feel like I'm communicating with - attempting to make a conversation, to be exact - with a 7-year-old. Despite that he's less cute than a 7-year-old.

I sneer, pushing him aside and walk away.

The next thing he does makes me pull out my revolver and almost squeeze the trigger. He grabs my upper arm and drags me back, but with too much force that I lose the balance. he holds me still, stopping me from falling onto the bed behind me.

He very unnecessarily clears his throat, 'I mean...By "exception", I mean you can stay.'

'Huh?' I raise a brow.

'If you like, of course.'

I smile, secretly checking out the bump in his crotch. He seems to find it uncomfortable too.

'What about Ashley?' I ask calmly 

'She's - She won't mind.'

He's hiding something.

'Is Adam and Tommy still here?'

'They went back to the US to spend the holiday.'

'Then why is Ash still here?'

'What do you mean?'

'She's American, and she's their friend, then why didn't she go with the boys?'

'God knows.'

'You don't even care about her, Ciarán.'

'What the fuck does that have to do with YOU?'

'She's a good girl, and you're ruining her.'

'Huh? Why do you even care? Is this part of your hierarchical shits? Because she's an alpha and you're an omega, null little bitch?'

It's hard not to slap his handsome face into the wall at this moment, but I can't. I know clearly as hell what his purpose is by rambling off all this nonsense to me. Under the condition I'm in now, there's no way I can really defeat him. I reply with silence and a piercing gaze.

I see the colour if his irises change.

I push my way past him and leave the room.

It's not after I've settled in the large bedroom and have been reading _Ship of Theseus_ for an hour or so that Ciarán walks in. I don't have the habit of shutting the door when I'm in the room, but he still knocks first. I cast him an emotionless glance as a 'come in', but I'm afraid that has done nothing but frightening my poor guest.

He asks again with great caution, 'May I -'

'Yes, come in.' I interrupt impatiently.

He carefully closes the door.

Then there's no more sound; I can barely hear him breathe. I don't know what he's doing there, but I'm pretty confident he's not here to take my life. Most of my attention is on this book now, and on the notes dear Jen made. After finishing 7 more pages and still not hearing any noise from him, I put the book down and turn around.

He's still standing where he closed the door, looking around without really moving his head, as if this room weren't his.

'What are you doing here?' I ask.

'I...I just -' He blushes a little, voice low, soft and nervous.

I sigh, 'You can answer with just a verb.' I stare at him, waiting for an answer and not even caring if it's a proper one, 'C'mon, say something!' I stand up, 'Or leave.'

I don't really mean to sound angry, and I keep my volume down, but he's still over-reacting.

He panics, broken sentences dropping out of his mouth, 'Please, please just don't - I know I...I didn't mean what I said, I didn't mean to...I...' He stops, and put his palms over the temples and lowers his head.

'You haven't answered me yet.' I soften my tone a little, 'Why are you here?'

He slowly looks up, 'Can we...talk?' He asks in a low, deep voice.

'Yeah, of course.' I place the book back to the shelf and sit on the bed, 'Come and take a seat.'

He hesitates for a second before sitting beside me, keeping a distance of some 10 inches. I can sense his violent heartbeat.

'Well,' I begin, hoping to reduce his unease, 'If it's about the nonsense you said in the studio, you can shut up now.'

'What...' He frowns a bit, 'Do you mean that...that you've...It's...'

'Oh, honey,' I bury my face in my palms, then look up at him with a calm expression, 'forget about your stupid words, alright? It's 21st century, PLEASE.'

A little smile appears across his lips, which he tries to hold back. 'Can you live without sarcasm?'

'Guess I can, yeah.' I turn my side to him.

He lets out a few little chuckles. 'So...' He moves cautiously a bit closer, 'You've forgiven me?'

'Yep, smart boy.'

'...Thank you.'

I nod once as a respond.

To be fair, though this room isn't suitable for creating art, it's comfortable and much bigger than the studio. It's evident that although no one lives here, it's cleaned very often. The curtains and the carpets are neat, and even the handles of the drawers are shiny.

'Um...What were you reading?' His eyes scan the bookshelf, 'May I know?'

' _Ship of Theseus_.'

He stares at me, 'Where did you get it?'

'It was left on the shelf of Laguna Verde H S Library.'

'So you literally stole a book from the library.'

'Oh man, it's left there and no one cares, but obviously someone should, okay?'

'No, I mean you just took it and no one came to stop you?'

I shrug.

He stretches his neck and leans forward to take a look at the pages. 'Why don't you buy a new one? There's others' notes on it.'

'They're Jen's, and some are mine too.'

'Jen? You know each other?'

I look into his eyes, 'Yes, and we discuss about this book with these notes. Any more questions?'

He frowns a little, 'No. Right.' Suddenly, he sneers and leans over before whispering, 'You get your feathers up so easily.' His breath is hot.

'Get out.'

'Hmm? What if I don't?'

I fix my stare right into his pupils. The space between our faces is hardly enough for breathing, and of course, I have mainly two plots of what's going to happen. I'm ready for both. This moment lasts a few seconds, and Ciarán gives up. His irises turn cold.

'Alright.' He stands up and walks out, leaving the door open.

I look down, and find myself semi-hard.

At 15:12, Ciarán comes in again, this time without knocking.

'Wanna eat something?' He asks, coming closer.

I look at him, confused, 'Why now?'

'You woke up early and didn't have lunch so maybe...' I'm about to say 'I'm not hungry' when he adds enthusiastically, 'And it's Christmas! We should anyway celebrate it, right?'

'With afternoon tea?'

'Yeah, if you say it. I'll bring it here.' Says Ciarán, getting up. He stands up slowly, obviously lingering. I reach for my book, sitting back behind the desk, before I hear the door be gently closed.

I've been studying V M Straka for some time, collecting pieces of information of them, and then I found this book. Jen highly disapproves my calling it mine. But well, it's just left there on the shelves and I picked it up with no one coming to take it back, so yeah, it's my book. It's interesting how Jen is passionate about this book and Straka too. Nevertheless, despite that I'd very much like to take her as friend, I choose to use my right hand to write and to not sign my name. Honestly, I'd rather stay anonymous than make up yet another alias. Fake names may hide you well for a while, but using different names in different occasions is risky, because occasions collide and you never know when they do.

The door opens slowly. I put the book back, mentally noting that I'm sending it off for Jen to grab. Amazing that I'm in fact in Ireland, right?

Ciarán pours a cup of tea and hands it to me. I accept it and take a sip.

'Not too bad, huh?' He asks, tilting his head slightly.

I shrug. 'I'd add more apple smash and some jasmine.'

He rolls his eyes, looking away.

We're silent for almost ten minutes before he awkwardly parts his lips, take a look at me, and closes them.

I breathe in slowly, keeping my eyes down, and softly go, 'You know I made up the whole scene, don't you?'

This is not what I'd planned to tell him, but I don't care that much now. I already know where the plot will go, and it's going astray. I can only try to keep it in control. After all, the man I'm dealing with is special. He's somehow made me do things I would never have done, and he's the first.

He turns to look at me.

'And you played it with me.' I continue, 'Oh, and thank you for that.' I give him a blank look. 'I've read the papers; I know you weren't worried at all because you knew one day I'd come back to you. And not only do you know, but -'

'J - Just -'

'Shh,' I press a thumb on his lips, 'Let me finish.' I slowly withdraw my hand, not losing the eye contact, 'Everyone knew. Adam, Tommy, Ste, Bren,' I take a break, 'ASHLEY.' I smirk at the sudden nervous look in his eyes, 'I did too. It's just about time.' I take a sip of my tea.

He's still staring at me. There's fear, anger, anxiety, madness and a little but of relief in his eyes.

I raise a brow at him. He frowns slightly before turning away.

I sneer, and take another sip of the tea.

It's this silence again. I don't really feel like calling Richard tonight, and he's still busy with his Christmas shows anyway. But I sort of wonder how Harry is doing. I still need him for other things - Damien can't do everything for me; many people around the Marais know him.

Ciarán hasn't yet talked about the last thing he did to me before I left. I mostly know what he wanted by doing that, but I want to hear it from his own mouth. I won't ask, though; I've already talked this much. I just wait, enjoying my tea.

It's been 15 minutes with neither of us speaking a word. I stand up and open the curtains. The sun is setting, and its glow flourishes into the room immediately. I narrow my eyes against the light. Standing in front the window, I look down at Glencullen River. The water reflects the sunlight, like a splash of stars.

Ciarán quietly comes standing behind me, and I can feel that he's looking at ME rather than the view outside.

'What?' I softly ask, my voice lazy, casual like the wind.

His hand climbs over my shoulder and holds my chin. He bends over, and after a brief, heated look, presses his lips against mine.

I reach up and give a forceful push at his chest.

It breaks the kiss, but doesn't make him stumble back. He stares at me, the colour of his irises changing.

'Again?' I coldly ask. I just want to hear him talk about it. His expression twists for half a second. He understands what I want, but is stuck between whether to speak it out or not. This is a situation he's totally unprepared of - From the moment I return from Paris, I have visibly set him in constant awkwardness, which makes me rather delighted.

I stare at him, just like every time I waited for his answer. His eyes are changing like those of a wolf, the colours being even more shifty and glorious than ever.

He grabs the back of my head and violently pulls me up until our lips crash again. My chest hits his. I groan out of instinct, struggling desperately to push him off yet in vain. This is not right; this has happened, and it's not happening again, even though I know there's little chance I'll get harmed in any way. The heat of his body is devouring me; my mind roars its rejection, but my body is somehow responding, wanting more, and this battle between my mental self and physical self is tearing me apart. The height difference has never been this obvious, and I feel his pressure from above forcing me to bend backwards, my lower back rubbing painfully against the windowsill.

Breathing is becoming difficult.

His hands leave my neck and slide down to my hips. They slowly move around to the cheeks of my butt and give them a rude squeeze as he bites my lower lip.

'Ngh...' I taste blood.

My spine is almost going to break, but he's not holding back at all. I frown, my hand reaching for the pistol in my pocket. He immediately puts his hand on mine and pulls it out. It's not until this moment that he finally detaches his lips from mine, leaving me space to breathe. He hooks the tip of the pistol on the collar of my shirt and drags me off the windowsill.

I know his strategy. He tortures me and exhausts all my strength, just like what his men had done back in Belleville. I let him.

He tosses me on the floor, holds the pistol between his teeth, peels off my trousers and pants, leaving the shirt on, and put the pistol back in his left hand. He kneels down over my waist, caressing my clavicles through the thin cloth of the shirt.

'Wanna challenge me?' He bents down and whispers close to my ear, 'Then c'mon.'

'Hmm...' I feel my cock getting hard.

'Try me.' He licks my auricle, his right hand drawing circles on my chest.

I let out a silent moan, closing my eyes. Right, let's see how far he can go.

He places the pistol between my laps just out of my reach, and begin unbuckling his own jeans. I have a few predictions of what he's about to do, and I'm clearly aware of what I'll become if I dare move a finger. He takes out his erected dick and walks behind the crown of my head.

The pistol is still between my legs, aiming at my balls.

A thick, humid, hot cock thrusts into my mouth. Ciarán's smell filled my head. From the corners of my eyes, I see his knees beside my face. My upper arms are caught by a pair of strong, sweaty hands and pulled up till my shoulders land on his laps. My head hangs down, my lips just touching the bottom of his shaft.

This is too much.

I'm hard as hell, but I can't touch.

He shifts to penetrate even deeper into my mouth. There's no process of accelerating; he arrives at top speed immediately. The soft tip rubs at my throat, the heavy bollocks swing in front of my eyes, the pubic hair tickles my chin. I know he enjoys the little feeling of my teeth touching his smooth skin and the sight of saliva and precome covering my already wet and swallowed lips. He's close to orgasm, but he's holding back. Of course he's got more to do, I know that.

As long as he doesn't fire the pistol.

No, he won't. He won't.

He needs me.

He slows down and pulls out, leaving only the tip touching my lower lip. He spreads his legs wider, pushes his hips up and leans forward, his balls and dick covering my sight. My shirt is quickly peeled off. I look over the cock to see his body stretching over mine. He's reaching for the pistol. I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh that sounds more like a long moan. Saliva covers my length, and the cock on my lip thrusts in again. It's tricky to keep up with his rhythm at both spots, taking in the red hot iron stick in my throat and popping my hips up and down. I'm on the edge for long enough; he licks a few more times before using his hand instead - His left hand. He uses the right hand to hold the pistol. I feel wet and hot at the hole, and at this very moment the plot is set. He will prepare me a little bit more, then press the pistol into my hole and fuck me with it as he keeps working my cock with his lips and tongue, and probably teeth. At the same time, I have to pay enough attention to the sticky, hard thing he stuffs in my mouth. He wants to come with me. The cold, hard pistol ends up indeed thrusting rapidly in and out of my body, sending rough pain through my veins, pushing me slowly over the edge.

The safety was pushed up when he snatched the pistol from my hand, but I don't know if he has unlocked it. His finger is certainly off the trigger, though.

'Ugh!' Hot, sticky liquid is ejected into my throat, almost choking me. I release right afterwards into his mouth, and I give him A LOT. My cock twitches non-stop, even after the pain has overridden the pleasure. He's not stopping. He begins to bite the inner side of my laps, leaving little bleeding marks. Great, he's preventing me from wearing any trousers in the next few days. My body is going out of control; I come once again, splashing half-transparent sperm all over his sweaty, smooth chest. It takes a little longer for him to arrive at the second orgasm, but it's not any weaker than the first time. Hot come rolls in my mouth and flows down my throat; it's bitter, sour, and a little bit sweet in the end.

He pulls the pistol out, and then his own cock. He stands up like nothing happened, casually sweeping off the remaining liquid on his dick.

He reaches his left hand to me. I grab it, and he pulls me up. His right arm wraps around my waist, and he presses a long, rough, forceful kiss on my lips. I don't reject. The kiss gradually grows tender; his tongue runs over the wound he left on my lower lip, causing this little stitching pain. He holds me close, our skins touching, transferring heat to each other. His heart is beating violently; he's panting when he finally breaks the contact.

The pistol is left on the floor, and the safety is up.

'It's me that should say sorry.' He abruptly whispers.

I sneer softly. 'Fuck, get over it.'

'Let's just...Let's be true to each other, right?'

I almost laugh. No, he can never be true to me, whatever he says. I understand his thoughts behind these words. He wants MY truth.

I push him away gently, and step back.

That's how he kept Nicky around, hot sex and sweet words. Nicky was still too young to think that much, and I guess Ciarán played better back then. I don't know how much reward he has got for the boy to make him stay, but I believe he didn't treat him this hard. Nicky is after all an alpha, and an alpha in heat is terrible. I doubt if Ciarán was able to control him like he did to me just now during the boy's heat. Tommy said they'd had sex on the floor; I assume that's one of his preferences, because there's no scent of any others on any of his beds, but several on the floor and in the bathroom, including Nicky's. I remembered his scent from Mark. However, last night when I examined the house for scents, I found no trace of Ashley. Maybe he wants to hide this relationship from me to make me believe he's been waiting for me. Maybe he'd made a similar mistake when Nicky was here. Then Nicky met Mark. Man, you should really admit that he was a bad choice.

'Your gun.' He says as I pick up the shirt and trousers.

'You didn't fuck your ex this hard, did you?' I tease, wrapping up the pistol with the shirt.

He glances at me. 'Clean clothes in the drawers.' He walks over to the closet beside the bed. I follow him. He throws me a night blue shirt and a pair of soft baggy black jeans. Huh, how thoughtful. I take out the briefs from my own bag and head to the bathroom.

I wonder if he'll break in again.

 

#### PART IX

Your hand fits in mine like it's made just for me, but bear this in mind, it was meant to be. And I'm joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeks, and it all makes sense to me.

\- One Direction·Little Things

* * *

'Where's my teabag?'

'On the top of the shelf.'

'Fuck, bring it to me.'

'Get it yourself. I'm busy.'

'No, you're not. Come get it for me.'

'You can't reach it yourself?'

'Would you just shut up?'

'Oh, okay,' Ciarán appears at the door, 'you can't.'

I roll my eyes. He easily takes the box of teabags off the shelf and place it on the windowsill near me.

'And don't put it there again.' I glare at him.

'Hmm?' He turns on his heels and walks off.

Since I returned, our relationship has come to a very interesting stage. Technically, we're not supposed to get here. It's hard to tell whether my feelings for Ciarán is real or it's just my mental suggestion. From that night on, he has begun to stay up with me for an hour or two past his usual bedtime. Now that spring has come, when I wake up, I will find a fresh rose in the vase on my windowsill, along with the strong, characteristic musky scent. He has a particular love for hybrid musk roses, and the day the first flowers blossomed, I got one in the studio.

'Why?' I asked.

He looked a little upset, like a little child who didn't get the praise he had wanted, 'Uh...You don't like it?' He swallowed, and rambled on, 'Yeah, I know that this scent is...It's not for everyone, I should have though of it - But it's the -'

'Look,' I raised my hand to tell him to stop, 'I haven't even said that -'

'No, let me finish.' He grabbed my shoulders, and went on, 'It's the first rose of this year. There are hundreds of buds in the garden, and this is the first to blossom.' There was a light in his blue eyes. 'It's a kind of hybrid musk rose,' he pointed at the flower with his chin, 'and it's called Moonlight. There are also some clusters of Wilheim, Cornelia and Pax, and lots of wild Irish roses, and I've brought back Heine, Nordhausen, Euphrosyne and Nymphe from Heidelberg. You'll see all of them.'

I just smiled and turned away.

He doesn't see Ashley often, nor Adam nor Tommy, although I am still in touch with them and we go out together from time to time. He doesn't even give a comment about me staying over at theirs for a night. I wonder if he actually knows we'd play some slightly dirty games.

I'm still painting, and I'm teaching again at Pine Forest. In a way, I become the artist again. I still use and only use my own paints, and still refuse to let anyone else touch my supplies and materials. I always hate people getting their hands on my things. Ciarán had put my turpentine, linseed oil and varnish and all the bottles on top of the closet, and I almost skinned him for that, plus he didn't and still haven't fixed the broken door. For about a week or so every month, I will lock myself in the studio, sleep all day and paint all night. As I refuse to open the door, he will place food every evening on the table outside. For some reason, he always appears to miss me a lot when I finally come out of the studio, and the kisses and touches will be very tender and affectionate, nearly loving, I can say.

For some reason, he never asks why I do that, and he has never entered the studio again. The first time I told him I need some time alone, there was a certain look on his face, but he didn't comment and just let it become a monthly thing. I pick two paintings each month for him, just like before, but neither of us counts it as the rent any more. I really do select the best two of the whole month. I open the studio door and show him the paintings, and he takes them to the basement. I don't go there often, usually only when the glamrock trio are there. They still play music, and are still delighted when I come to listen, but they don't specially invite me to their gigs any more. I will turn up anyway.

'How do you know every time when we're gigging?' Adam asks me on the way back from the Merry Ploughboy.

I glance at him, 'You tweet, man.'

'Ha!' He laughs loud, 'I though you wouldn't use those craps.'

'And I disappoint you?' I tilt my head.

He takes a look at me, and pulls a despising face, 'Yeah,' He deliberately stretches the sound, 'but good that you know it.'

I roll my eyes. I haven't asked him how he got my number yet, although I had known his too without him being aware. He's a little high, throwing an arm around my shoulders and tugging me close. It's already warm even at nights, and his scent has become very strong. He's holding me too tight that the heat is tickling my skin, and in the end it's Tommy who pulls him off me.

When I return, Ciarán is coming down the stairs. He looks me in the eyes and smiles tiredly.

'How's the gig?' He softly asks, as if not daring break the silence of the night.

'Not bad.' I walk past him without looking up.

He follows me close behind, 'Are you hungry? There's some pie left.'

I wonder what is wrong with him today. I turn around and simply stare at him. Moonlight shine in his eyes; they look darker than in the day, with the colour of deep ocean.

He stands still for a few seconds, before suddenly running up and pressing his lips on mine. They are hot, dry, and desperate. Not wanting to start a war at this moment, I kiss back, stopping my hand on his chest from pushing him away.

He pulls back rather quickly, as if realising that he shouldn't have done it, and almost stumbles a few steps back.

My scent grows aggressive, but I don't even bother to control it.

He opens his mouth, and closes it. He swallows hard, then goes hesitatingly, 'Look...I know you're - ' He blinks, and restarts the sentence, 'I know you'll leave, one day.' I narrow my eyes. 'I can say it like this because I'm sure.' He continues, 'People come and go. That's what they do.'

'What the fuck is your problem today?' I run out of patience.

He freeze for an instant, then shouts, 'I don't want you to leave like everyone else, okay?' The veins are pumping on his flushing neck.

I just stare blankly at him. He doesn't mean a word he said, I tell myself. Well, okay, in fact, he said he didn't want me to leave and I know that is true, but the reason behind it is complicated. Him keeping me here isn't the same as, say, Brendan keeping Ste in the pub.

'I'm tired.' I turn and continue to go up, slightly shocked by how cold and flat my voice was just now.

This time, he doesn't follow.

I sit down in the studio. I have left the window open during the day, and it's cool in the room with the smell of grass and trees. Everything that has happened since I met him comes back to me. Honestly, it's gone far far away from my expectation. When I knew Mark sent the painting, I believed I was ready to face the music, and I asked him to go and to leave it to me. It's now proved right that I chased Mark away, but I was certainly wrong to think that I was prepared for the consequences. I was only prepared for what I thought would happen. The story has already started to go astray from the moment when Ciarán asked me for two paintings a month.

I ring Damien.

'Yes, boss.' He answers playfully.

'Would you find Mike and Cam for me? I'm meeting them after four weeks.'

'Je vais essayer d'obtenir leurs horaires complets.'

'Cheers, man.'

'D'autres choses?'

'Yes. Call Harry tomorrow and tell him to get ready for the trips. I'll go twice, one by one.'

'Compris. Et vous rentrez ensemble?'

'No. He'll come back immediately. I stay with the crew.'

'Ils savent?'

'Not yet, but soon. I'm considering whether to contact Joe or Louis first.'

'Je dis Louis.'

I go silent. After a while, I say, 'Yeah, you're right.'

'Alors, vas-y. Je t'envoie l'enregistrement demain.'

'Got that. Thanks.'

'Pas de quoi. Bisous.'

I chuckle, and make a kissing sound. 'Bye.'

I sigh, looking around, and gets on my feet.

Ciarán is not asleep; I hear little sounds from his bedroom. I walk through the dark hallway, keeping my steps slow and quiet. Yellow light leaks from the loosely closed door, interrupted from time to time by his moving shadow. I push the door softly, listening to the long, lazy groan it makes.

He notices me, although he doesn't look my way. He spreads himself across the large double bed, staring into nothing.

I stand there watching him for five seconds, and he doesn't move. I inhale slowly, and go, 'Why did you say that I'd leave?'

He doesn't answer, but his chest is heaving. I wait, my hands in the huge pockets of the pajamas. Eventually, he sighs, 'Everyone does.' His voice can barely be heard.

'You may know everyone, but you don't know ME.' I walk up and sit down on the edge of the bed.

He sneers, shaking his head.

'You've been saying weird things recently.' I keep my eyes on him, 'Explanation?'

He flips over, 'What do you mean?'

'I mean what I said. You've been weird. You said I was an exception, then you said we should be true to each other, and now this. What's your problem?'

He blinks. 'I - Look, I don't know what - I don't understand, Aron. Anything wrong with saying those? What's YOUR problem?'

I look out of the window. 'You didn't mean what you said.'

'You don't know.'

I raise an eyebrow without moving the rest of my body. The bedroom is flooded with the smell of night mixed with my own scent that I don't bother to hide.

'We're never true to each other,' I softly say, my eyes unfocused, 'neither of us.'

He turns to face me. 'Why bring it up?'

'Just stop it.' I slowly shake my head.

'Stop what?' He sits up and grabs my shoulder, forcing me to look at him.

I seize his wrist and pull the hand off. 'I'm tired.' I reply, my eyes staring into his.

'Then why are you still here?' His volume rises. He leans forward, frowning, 'What do you mean?'

I look away. He's breathing heavily that the sound is too much for this silence. It's all I hear. The air he exhales against my cheek is warm.

We stay like this for almost a minute, sitting still with the awkward quietness, before he abruptly puts his hand over mine.

I shiver a little.

He uses his free hand to cup my face, and leaves a long kiss on my temple. I close my eyes.

We end up once again in bed together. I don't even want to sleep; I'm just exhausted. He loves to solve problems this way, not that it actually works for the problems, though. He enjoys having his dick in my hole, that's it. Sometimes it gets more than this. Sometimes, he ties me up with ropes or ribbons, take his time to do my makeup, and shag me until we both have nothing to give - on the floor, naturally. I suppose our sounds can be heard from the west side of the house, but no one ever talks about it. I always have difficulties talking in a proper voice the morning after, and I'm almost used to the ache in my back and waist. It reminds me of the time when I was a one-night stand boy.

When I wake up, the other half of the bed is empty. There is the smell of cheddar and baked potatoes, but I know it's already past lunch time. I take a quick shower, and check the call archive Damien has sent me in the morning. He didn't say one extra word, as always, so I suppose Harry will come and ask me about it very soon. It will take some more time to get Mike and Cam's schedule, but anyway, I have two weeks.

On the table of the living room, there's a plate of cheese and potatoes, a tin of Cherry Coke, and a spoon. How thoughtful, I chuckle.

When I return from Pine Forest in the evening, I consider for a while whether I should go find Harry myself instead of waiting for him to show up, but then I decide that I wait. It's very likely that he's with Ste, so it can be quite awkward if I ask to have a word just with him. What do I do for the rest of the night? I pick up _Ship of Theseus_ and walk to Johnnie Fox's Pub. Although I say it's night, the sky is far from dark, and it literally feels like going to the pub at noon. The little glimpse of orange light at the horizon is the only reminder that it's already 8:54pm.

'Whoa, whoa...' Brendan stands behind the bar, scanning me up and down, a mysterious curl at the corner of his lips.

Ste turns up and pushes at him, 'Go away, Bren. Stop embarrassing others.'

Brendan sneers, and gets himself busy collecting empty Heineken bottles. Ste looks at me, and his eyes brighten with awe. 'You look great.' He smirks, shaking his head.

It's an evening cooler than usual, and I'm wearing the grey tee with a V-shape neckline and black skin-tight jeans, with a black fedora. I raise a brow, 'Yeah, I know right.'

'So...' He narrows the large blue eyes, 'What day is today?'

'It's Friday.'

'No, I mean -' He laughs so hard that he has to stop talking for a few seconds. His face is flushed, and there are tears on his lashes. 'I mean,' he finally goes, still giggling, 'is it a special day? Some special occasion, maybe?'

'It's funny?' I frown with a smile, 'It's just Friday.'

'No, just...Thought you dressed up for something special.' He shrugs. Then he glances down and notices the book, 'What's this?'

I show him the cover, ' _Ship of Theseus_. Sending it off to a friend.'

'By mail?'

'No, he'll come and grab it.'

'Alright. What do you want for tonight then?' He places his hands on the bar.

'I don't know. Make me something original.'

'Yes, sir.' He winks, 'Any special requests?'

'Don't drug me.'

He rolls his eyes, 'Copied that.'

It ends up a Jameson Black Barrell blend with ginger ale, lemon juice, an orange slice with a floating sorbet coated with caramel, served in a pint glass.

'What the hell, Ste?' I take a sip, looking at him behind the lashes.

'100% original and not poisonous, as you commanded, sir.' There's a naughty grin across his face.

'You know what this tastes like?'

'Nope.'

I put the glass down, 'You should -'

The bell on the door rings. I turn around, and see Mr Crayhill coming in. He's in that casual sky blue tee that has accompanied him for his entire life.

I nod at Ste, and jumps off the stool. 'Hi.' I smile at Mr Crayhill.

'She's losing her patience.' He holds out his left hand.

I raise a brow. 'I'm occupied, you know.' I say as placing the book in his hand.

'Oh, yes, of course.' He winks, and leaves without another word.

When I turn around, I meet Ste's wide eyes. He stares at the back figure of Mr Crayhill, and stares at me.

'He's from Birmingham?' He asks me under the breath.

'Yes, he is.'

He pouts a little and nods.

'But you should really taste this thing yourself.' I point at the glass.

He giggles, and takes out a straw from nowhere. 'Is it very bad?' He glances up at me with a cheeky grin.

'You decide.' I tilt my head.

He pulls a 'screw you' face, and takes a drink from the straw. He frowns and pulls the straw out immediately. He swallows and purrs, 'Damn.' The straw is thrown mercilessly into the bin.

'Is it very bad?' I put my elbows on the bar.

'Damn,' he repeats, 'too much ginger.'

'Glad you know.'

Suddenly, his eyes light up. He leans forward and whispers into my ear, 'I'll make one for Harry. Don't tell him.' He pats on my shoulder, and walks off.

I stay until 11:00. As I push the door open, I see Ciarán about to walk in. He looks at me and smiles, 'Here you are.' But I see the disappointment in his eyes when he glances at the bar. He puts the left arm around my waist. Behind me, the sound of footsteps comes close and stops beside the bar. I smell the scent of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I'm really, really sorry that it took so long. Been very busy since uni and when I was admitted to the school in Paris it didn't get any better so I only have some time to write during the vacations.  
>  _Ship of Theseus_ is the book in a book called _S._. Weird, yes. I've just started so there's no much reference. But do go read it if you haven't! It's a brilliant work.  
>  The outfit with the fedora comes from the photos Andrew did dressed by Topman. These are my favourite set of photos he's ever done!  
> Mr Crayhill's sky blue tee is actually because Ian Hallard has a blue tee that is very blue, and I just think it's really cute, for no reason.


	4. When The Stars Go Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone dies some day. I know when my time is coming, and I know there are a lot of people wanting to be my Grim Reaper. However, it takes a devil to eliminate a devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! _When The Stars Go Blue_ is a song by the Corrs but I always listen to the cover by Wonderland. The girls are amazing.  
>  In this chapter many things will be revealed and I try to make it clear. HomeTown will appear! With the Vamps, as they supported the Vamps's UK and Ireland tour (with the Tide, and with Conor Maynard in the UK). But that was only in the UK and Ireland, and they didn't come to France, so I kind of made it up. The timeline is mixed because technically when Nicky was a pub singer, the boys in HomeTown and the Vamps were just a few years old.  
> Beta'd on 19 July 2017.

#### PART X

Hope you just don't stop praying when the water does fall, 'cuz standing in the rain ain't gonna leave you dry.

\- HomeTown·Standing In The Rain

* * *

'...Uh - Ugh...Ah...'

'Faster...Ugh...Faster, c'mon...'

'N - No, don't...'

'Yeah...Ngh...Ah...'

'Ah - Ugh...Can't...I - I can't...'

'Yes...Yes you - Ah...'

'I'm - I'm close! I...'

'Yes...Uh - Ah! Ugh!'

'Ah! Uh...Huh...'

'Ugh...Ngh...'

'Hmm...'

The fragrance of musk roses is stronger than ever.

I'm leaning against the wall, Ciarán in front of me. Our clothes are all over the place, and there are white stains on the wall and the floor. The atmosphere is weird. Our faces are just inches away, and it's a little hot in the small room. I have told him I'd be away for a few days, and I said it was a business trip. He knows that Harry will accompany me, so does Ste and Brendan.

I feel pretty sorry for Brendan now; there's always a little bit of the sweet, cheerful scent of Ste on Harry. 'We're not together.' That's what Harry told me. 'We can't, you know, two omegas...Brendan has marked him anyway.' The blue colour of his eyes was dim.

I sighed. 'Does he know you're leaving three weeks later?'

'Yeah. I said I'm going to Paris.'

'London first. But it doesn't matter; I'm just making sure he knows you'll be away.'

He nodded. 'Anything else I can do?'

'Not much. Just be careful with your words.'

He thought for a while, and went, 'Um, it's probably not my business -'

'Is it about Ciarán?'

He looked shocked, and slightly frightened. 'Uh, yes. Sorry if -'

'He knows. Not everything, but he knows we're going to London and Paris.'

'What -' He exclaimed, then glanced around and lowered his voice, 'What the hell are you thinking? Why do you tell him where we're going?'

'Why not?' I pulled his hands off my shoulders.

'He can tell them to leave! He can tell them to change their schedules! And Damien -'

'I know what to do, okay?' I stood up, and leaves the basement. Harry followed.

Damien sent me the full schedules four days after I called him. He's rewritten the codes a little bit just to keep him informed with the changes of plans. Sadly, Ciarán is still not clever enough, and he did what Harry predicted. Two weeks before the trip, I got the news from Damien that Mike was leaving London for Sedgefield in 5 days. It doesn't bother me anyway.

We're leaving this evening. Harry is probably enjoying his time with Ste now, and Brendan will be taking care of the pub. Ciarán woke me up at teatime, and I could smell that he put twice the usual amount of roses in the vase. He pulled me into the shower and needless to say, we did it there - It's become an unspoken thing now - and he nearly burnt my balls with hot water. After that, he carried me back to the studio and tied me up on the bed with my clothes from the closet and my ropes that were initially used for measuring. He rolled up the canvas and made it a whip, which later left swelling, bloody marks and wounds all over my body. When he was once again tired of this game, he dragged my almost limp body and pinned me up against the wall, before successfully squeezing the last drop of sperm out of my exhausted cock.

It's a miracle that I am standing on my feet.

'Damn, it's just a few days, okay?' I pant, resting my head on the cold wall.

He swallows. 'I don't want you to go.'

'I won't die! I'll come back.' I close my eyes, sighing.

'Yeah, but...'

I look him in the eye, 'I told you four weeks ago that I'm leaving this evening, Ciarán.'

He avoids my stare and nods slowly.

'And you don't want me to go, so you just fucked me like that? That's how you say it?' I stand straight despite how much pain it takes, searching his eyes, 'Sometimes I really wonder if you're serious.'

It makes him look up in a snap. 'Why, I am.'

'No, you know what I'm talking about.'

He places both hands on the wall on either side of my head, and bends forward. 'Yeah, I mean that too.'

Then start praying, sweetheart. I peck on his lips, and makes my way out under his left arm.

'Wait for me at Cinnamon Club. Bus 870 arrives in a minute. Get off at Wynyard Road End and walk straight in. It's Indian, pretty good.'

Harry nods, and rushes to the bus stop.

I stand in the shadow of Black Lion Inn, Sedgefield. Across the road is the Ministers Restaurant, where I will be having an appointment in 20 minutes. I texted him ten minutes ago, and he said he would arrive in half an hour. I wait for the cars to pass, and head to the restaurant.

'I have a reservation.'

The boy at the reception stares at me for a moment, lips parted. He blinks quickly, 'Uh, your last name, sir, please?' There is a little accent.

'Brook.'

He checks my name in the list, and leads me to the table in a quiet corner by the window. 'Would you like to order now, sir?'

'No, thank you. I'll wait for my guest.' I look up and smile at him, 'Just some bread for now, please.'

He nods once, and strides toward the kitchen. He is a tall alpha boy, kind of skinny, but very beautiful. I mean it. When he looked at me, there was a light blush on his cheeks.

'Bread for you, sir.' He puts the little bucket in front of me, and rushes back to the kitchen. My eyes follow the noise from the reception, and there stands a man in a dark greyish blue suit. There he is. A girl notes down his name, and guides him to my table.

'How do you do, Mr Holmes?' I take the hand he holds out.

'How do you do, Mr Brook?'

I pick a piece of bread from the bucket with my right hand, sitting down, and go, 'I chose this little place,' I dip the bread in the sauce, 'because I want this meal to be comfortable, and that we can focus on what we're talking about.' The bread ends up in my mouth.

'Yes, yes, of course.' He takes a piece of bread too, and repeats my action. 'It IS small, but very agreeable, isn't it?'

'Indeed. I'm glad you like it, Mr Holmes.'

Another guy comes over to take our orders. Mycroft decides to simply have a lemonade instead of alcoholic drinks, while I ask for a Lemmy with a slice of lemon in a Collins glass.

The talk is, despite that Mycroft is an intelligent person, quite boring. He is not someone to discuss art with - Or it should not be with me. He has his sweet, pretty partner in the Yard, but now all his attention is on ME rather than our topic. I mean me as a 27-year-old omega with pale skin, large dark eyes and thick eyeliners. If he had a scent, it would grow so strong that all alphas and omegas in the entire hall could smell it. Hiding my own scent is easy as always - Not that it does anything to him; I just don't want any extra attention. To be honest, I don't hate the fact that he's attracted by me, be it for whatever cause. There's no way that we end up in bed or any shit of the sort, but knowing that he probably wants it to happen pleases me.

The beautiful waiter never shows up again.

Eventually, Mycroft pre-orders a series of my sculptures. They are actually almost done, but I tell him it will take a week or so. We share a handshake, and I go off toward Barclays Bank. Bus X21 is arriving.

Anthea is waiting beside Mycorft's shiny black car. May his powerful God bless him.

When the bus approaches Village Hall, there is Harry standing at the stop sucking at a cigarette. The third one, as there are already two on the ground, flat and crushed. He sees me, and hops on. He secretly gives me a look, and sits down far from me. This is better than I expected.

I get off at St Albans Church, and he follows. It's not until I have walked past the church that he comes up close and asks, 'Where are we going?'

'Polemonium Plantery.'

He mumbles, 'Okay...'

'If you'd like to know the plan -'

'Yes, yes I fucking do.' He scuttles to catch up with my pace.

I shoot him a glance, 'You and I will share a room, and you can apologise to Ste if you want to, because we're gonna pretend to be a couple.' Just in case, I add, 'I won't really do it.'

He snorts, 'Yeah, I know.' After a while, he goes, 'You look really...nice, with the makeup, and this hair.'

'Just "nice"?'

'What do you expect?'

I shrug. '"Nice" is such a boring word.'

He rolls his eyes as response.

The receptionist is a beta boy who, with that look on his face, seems to hate this job a lot, and he easily accepts our fake identities. We are given two sets of keys to our double room on the first floor. Only a few rooms are occupied, and we see no one but a cleaner on our way. There are cameras in the hallway.

I keep a hand on Harry's back and unlock the door. The curtains are already opened and tied up, bed made, and, on the night table, a box of Durex Surprise Me, and two tubes of lube, one pink, the other purple. How fucking thoughtful. I close the door behind me and just stand there, my hands in the pockets, watching Harry kick off his shoes and fall back onto the large bed, not even bothering trying on the provided slippers. I'm just grateful that they don't leave us with a round bed.

Harry takes a deep breath and says, 'Mr Sarsfield?'

'Aron.'

'Uh, I think - I mean, there's something I should tell you.' His voice is shaking.

I frown. 'Go on.'

His lips part, but nothing comes out. He closes them and swallows, shifting uncomfortably.

I decide not to push him.

Finally, he mumbles, 'My heat is near.'

Well.

Before seeing his flushing face and neck, only with how rapid his chocolate flavour scent is diffusing, I already know what he meant by 'near'. The outbreak can be tonight. When I was at his age, during the heat, I'd lock myself in the attic with 5 vibrators for 72 hours. It really worked. Then I would return to my spot behind the bar, satisfy a few clients at night, and everything was fine again. Sometimes, there were alphas on heat who came to me, and although we'd still call it a one night stand, it could last up to five nights. It was terrible despite how well I was paid, because they couldn't mark me - not that I wanted them to, though. I have only done that four times, but it was these four times' experience that eventually saved me in Belleville. However, back to reality, we have neither a vibrator nor an alpha; I could have helped him out if he needs it, but I have promised not to do it. Why did I say that after all?

'What do you wanna do about it?' I sit beside him and change the slippers on.

The boy never moves his eyes away from the ceiling. 'Pff...I don't know.'

I wipe the phone screen with the edge of my tee. 'What would you do when you were with Ste?'

Hearing the name, he falls silent for five seconds. 'But you're not him.' His voice can barely be heard.

With a sigh, I get up to my feet, grab my bag and walk into the bathroom. I don't really feel like eating. In the bag, there's a clean pair of boxer briefs and all I need for the makeup and the hairstyle. I stare at myself in the little mirror. Completely naked, the thick eye makeup and fluffy bluish purple hair look very out of place. I turn around and lock the door. The sound of water drowns the noises Harry is making, but when I turn it off, I can hear that his condition is starting to get worse. The scent almost leaks in, and he is moving constantly on the bed. The neighbouring rooms are empty, so hopefully we will not wake anyone up in the middle of the night.

I dry myself and walk out in nothing but underwear. At the center of the messy bed, Harry is lying on his side, hips budging, and then he sees me. Water dripping from my hair lands everywhere on my body and slides down my skin; I've removed all makeup, although it took ages and loads of cleansing oil. Sun begins to set, and the glow becomes hazy.

I call the room service to bring a bottle of Bulmers Original.

Sweat has soaked Harry's plaid shirt, and beneath the creases on the stretched fabric, the shape of his muscled back can be seen.

'You can take it off, you know.' I take my bag from the bathroom and drop it on the chair in front of me.

He hums from the bottom of the throat.

I roll the clothes up and stuff them neatly in the bag. 'At least it won't stink tomorrow.'

He mumbles with a sneer, 'Fuck off.'

As I am about to zip the bag up, the door bell rings. 'Room service, gentlemen?' A masculine voice says politely.

'You, Harry.' I whisper, and pull him up.

Shooting me a completely nonthreatening glare, he gets up unwillingly and walk past me to open the door.

A neatly-dressed waiter in his mid-twenties stands at the doorway, a bottle of Bulmers cider on the tray in his hand. When he sees Harry, the professional smile freeze for a second, and he quickly says, 'Bulmers Original, sir. Have a pleasant night.' The young lad raises the corner of his lips briefly, and leaves before Harry can finish a 'thank you'. Maybe he decides that we urgently need some time alone. The poor boy doesn't even realise that we're both omegas.

When Harry turns around, he finds me lying flat on my back on the bed. I jump up to get the opener; he climbs on the bed and attempts to seize my wrist, but misses. I cast him a glance, but he probably doesn't see it. The cider is good as always, needless to say. I fill two glasses, and bring one to Harry.

He groans, and pours the entire glass down his throat all at once.

I raise an eyebrow, and take a sip of mine.

'Can I...ask you something?' He says in a strange voice, panting.

I turn to look at him, 'You want to talk at this moment?'

He sighs heavily that it sounds like moaning. 'I...guess I need you - your help.'

I stare at those blue, watery puppy eyes. FINE. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like the idea; it's simply because I have promised not to do it. Now we have no choice.

I put my glass on the desk beside the telly, and walk to the bed. Before I lay my hand on the sheet, he rolls over and literally pulls me onto his body. I wince, but he doesn't care at all. He pulls my briefs down with the left hand and holds my cock with the other. His hand is warm and sweaty, stroking up and down faster and faster. This teenage boy is indeed very good at it, wherever all the little tricks and skills come from, and I'm starting to get lightheaded. Damn, he's an omega.

I peel his hands off me and crawl to take the lube and condom. My balls are quite heavy, and I can feel them swinging with my semi-hard cock. The tip touches the sheet, leaving a wet stain.

'Preferences?' My voice becomes low and hoarse.

'Pink and purple...Mix them, and - and Pleasure Me...'

Woah.

He flips me over and pin my wrists above my head with his right hand, while steadying my cock with the left one. His precome drips on my abdomen, and slides down the sides. He finds the right angle and sits down to the bottom at once. Ugh, he's tight. I'm feeling kind of bad, but after all, it's not me who started it. Harry is moving up and down around my length like a powerful pump, trying to sink deeper, moaning so loud that he's literally shouting. I stare at the ceiling, letting my body shake with his. It's weird having sex with someone you're not sexually connected with; I feel the pleasure of sex itself, but that's all. It's a bit like eating good food when not hungry.

He goes on five more times, and at last neither of us have the strength to keep the pace up, but his body is not content yet. Of course it isn't; an omega is far from enough for another omega in heat. I wonder what exactly he would do if it was Ste instead of me here. I'm not him anyway.

I end up owning this bed all to myself, because Harry decides to sleep on the floor. He says it's cold and hard, so it can calm him down a bit. 'There's no way I'm getting a random alpha to help me out.' He insists.

It's suffering to wait for him to fall asleep. I look blankly out of the window, listening to all kinds of noises he makes and guessing what he's up to. My phone is picked up and put down repeatedly for at least ten times, and it's warm with the heat of my hand. Finally, at 3:46 in the morning, he is all still and quiet. I dial the number that hasn't been called for a while.

'Rich?'

He answers immediately, 'Hey man. Been a while.'

'Yeah, indeed.'

'So...What's the problem this time?'

'You know me.' I chuckle, 'I'm in the same room with an omega in heat.'

'What -'

'Let me finish. We're leaving tomorrow. It's scheduled.'

'You won't. It's impossible, and you know that yourself.'

'It's the plan.'

He sighs. 'What if you send him back?'

'But I need him in three days.'

He thinks for a while. 'How do you leave then?'

It's my turn to fall silent. 'You mean we can rent a car?'

'There you are. Use my identity; they won't find out.'

'Fine.'

'Good luck, baby.'

'Ch-'

'Oh yes, where are you going tomorrow?'

'Belleville.'

PART XI

No windows, no doors, no in and out from here on, no feelings under the floor. I build my castle up strong, nothing can ever go wrong.

\- Markus Feehily·Santuary

* * *

'It's finally just you and I.'

This is where I used to be. All is different, and the old shabby pub is nowhere to be found, but still, for a long time, this was where I belonged. Of course, I mean the neighbourhood of Belleville, not precisely this spot. 'Rue Denoyez', reads the placard surrounded by graffiti.

'You don't remember here,' he goes on, smiling, 'because you couldn't see. How far can you go if you're blind? Actually, things haven't changed so much.' He takes a deep breath, 'Time is often blamed,' a pause, 'but has time done anything? No. Time doesn't change things; things change themselves, as we change ourselves.'

The setting sun sends its warm, golden glow into this narrow alley, flashing on the paints of the doodles covering both walls. Dust floats in the air and dances in the breeze, misting the light.

'No one blames time for the changes,' I meet his eyes through the glasses, 'and I don't need to remember here.'

He giggles, and turns away. 'Then why do you come?'

'I can ask you the same thing,' I tilt my head, and add, 'Maggie.'

It works. 'I thought we didn't need any introduction?' He says without moving any part other than the lips.

'No, we don't. It's called a nickname, and when I call you by a nickname, it means we're close.'

He sneers, 'You and I both know it's not quite true.'

'What is "it"?'

'That we're close.'

I smile, and walks to the bar. This brasserie is all ours now. Scarlet lights illuminate the hall, and huge, bright neon letters hang on the wall behind the bar. 'Aux Folies'.

In front of him, I take a bottle of Chopin, a bottle of green crème de menthe, and two cocktail glasses. I spare an eye to watch his reaction, but he comments nothing. I take it as a permission, and pour a little crème de menthe in both glasses. He still doesn't say a word. Like diluting concentrated sulfuric acid, I add the vodka into the semi-transparent green liquid.

'Some ice, maybe?' I pick up my own glass and let the light pierce through it.

'No, thank you.'

I briefly raise the corner of my lips. 'Sláinte.'

He raises his glass too, but keeps quiet.

I don't drink vodka very often, but it's not because it's too strong; I just don't like it. Guinness is bitter, Jameson is sweet, but vodka? You taste it, and all you know is alcohol. However, I have to drink it now, because this man in front of me is important.

He sighs contently, and places the glass on the table, holding it with three fingers. 'Can you answer me now, Mr...Sarsfield?'

I shrug, 'I'm here because you are.'

'Hmm,' he slowly raises his chin, 'very clever, very clever.'

'But you haven't tell me why YOU are here, Charles.' I take another sip of the drink.

'I'm always here,' he smiles, 'since long before the first time you saw me.'

I stare at the narrow blue eyes behind the glasses. The clock ticks life away with its dull, immutable sound, replacing the loud music that fills the air in usual evenings. In this strained silence, the red light flows everywhere in the place. A bunch of young people pass in front the half-closed door, talking loudly, laughing about dirty jokes. I listen without a word.

20 minutes pass. 'Would you like something to eat?' I get up.

He glances up, and shakes his head.

I walk over to the bar and get myself two large balls of ice cream, one of mango and the other of mint and chocolate. When I come back with the bowl, busy stopping the ice cream from dripping, he starts frowning slightly. The look on his face is changing; it's not very obvious, but I can distinguish. The ends of his eyebrows tremble from time to time; his lips are shut tight into a thin line; his eyes stare tensely into the liquid, and the grip around the glass gets tighter. He is trying hard to conceive the discomfort that he probably has foreseen, and he almost succeeded.

I dig the spoon deep into the ice cream, and lift it up again with a large lump.

Richard calls. It's 21:42.

'Excuse me.' I nod at Charles, whether he cares or not, and go out. I look over my shoulder and see him sitting still, back towards me; I shut the door from the outside with one experienced move.

'Not now, babe.' I softly says into the speaker.

He sounds a little down. 'Well, okay. Sorry.'

'No, no, it's not your fault. I'll call back tonight, yeah?'

'Alright.' Then he hangs up.

I immediately dial Harry's number.

He doesn't pick up, but cuts it.

I sigh, and slide the phone back to my pocket. Charles is still sitting there in almost the same pose, one elbow on the table.

Another five minutes pass, and suddenly, with a blasting sound behind me, I get hit from the back and fall forward. I push my body up with my hands and lift my left leg to kick the person above me. He stumbles back, covering his crotch, his mouth open wide but no sound comes out. I take out the pistol with my left hand while jumping to my feet. They see it, and pull out their firearms too. I take a moment to glance around, and find a few familiar faces.

Bang! A bullet flies just an inch past my face. All at once, dozens of bullets follow. I skip back, pull the trigger, and crash one bullet aiming at my chest. I fire again right the next moment and smash his face. At the same time, my right hand draws a dagger out from the scabbard on my belt, tie the attached chain around my wrist, and cast the dagger out. It pierce into the abdomen of a lad I've seen eight years ago; I tug the weapon out, and on the tip are hooked bloody intestines.

Loud noise of engine rushes close from the end of the alley, accompanied with gunshots like raindrops. I fling the dagger again towards one man's waist and drag the chain as I run towards the motorbike, my finger pressing on the trigger to keep myself covered. The moment I hop on the back seat, the motorbike storms towards the other end of the road; I haven't even retrieved the dagger. Clinging to the shirt of the rider, I pull at the chain and roll it around my fingers, watching out not to let the blade hit on the walls or cut myself. It's almost soaked in red, pieces of who knows what still on it.

'Can you spare a hand, Harry?' I yank at his shirt.

'Fuck off!' He shouts, 'Damn, I almost fell!'

Fine. Had I not given him the pills, he'd certainly not have the strength to scold me. I wrap my left arm around his waist and hold the dagger with my left hand, my right hand taking out a small bottle of cleaner I prepared myself to spray it over the surfaces of the dagger. There's a bit of odor, but it's okay. We're moving fast.

We both can hear the police alarm reaching the scene we've left behind. I've put the dagger and the pistol back, and since the both of us didn't attack close, there is no stain on our clothes. The motorbike is a bit loud, but there are loads everywhere. Besides, we know where we're going.

'Has the gig started?' Harry asks.

'Yes, and it's near the end.'

He nods, and speeds up a little. His scent gets stronger.

At 22:35, we pull up at the backstage entrance of Zénith Paris - la Villette.

'Hi Louis. Hi Joe. This is Harry.' I place a hand on the boy's back.

'Hello, Harry!' Joe sounds really cheerful. Then he turns to me, 'Nice makeup, man.' He winks, and turns on the screen of his phone. 'The boys will wrap up in a few minutes, I suppose.'

The guards fix their eyes on us in a strange way. I stare back, and they frown, but turn away at last.

The doors are shoved open, followed by an explosion of loud screaming from the fans and crazy shouting from the boys. They almost sprint out like horses being freed from the stable, covered in sweat and stinking a bit. Tristan is, as always, not over the madness, and is still dancing and jumping, making all kinds of weird sounds. Except Brad, everyone just ignores him for most of the time. Joe tries to calm everyone down, while Louis gathers his own bunch of lads and faces me. Me, not Harry, though, because Harry has already started messing around.

'He's returning to Dublin with you.' He's practically talking to the six band members, but he's looking at me.

'Jimmie.' I pull a smile, 'Nice to meet you all.'

Harry hops on the motorbike and follows the security staffs while I get in the tour bus. Although they tour together, each band have their own bus, and naturally I'm with the HomeTown crew. Sitting among these people, it feels like my teenage dream of being in a band has come true - Sure, I wanted to play things like rock or death metal, but at least I'm in the tour bus of a band as 'part of the team', even though just for a few hours, even though it's a pop band. Even though I'm not part of it after all.

There is always a faint scent of hot tea and cream dipped strawberries.

The scent belongs to the boy who sits across from me beside the window. He has a lighter complexion than the others, and the black curls that almost reach the shoulders only makes him look paler. He is looking outside the window, his side profile toward me. I'm reminded of the beautiful virgin alpha I met in the cell.

A blond lad with a sharp look is close beside him, an arm around his shoulder. He follows the dark-haired boy's sight. 'What's there, Bren?' He has a deep, magnetic voice that doesn't really match his young age.

Brendan shivers at the sudden interruption and turns to look at him. He notices my stare and quickly ducks away, blushing a little. 'No,there's nothing. I'm just...' Not knowing how to finish the sentence, he shrugs it off.

The blond boy smiles and rubs his arm.

'Being in a band is like falling in love.' Adam once said.

On the other side of the bus, it's much louder. There's a little fellow with short dark hair at the center of all the noise, waving his arms around, almost jumping from the seat. 'Glass!' He shouts, pointing at the window.

'Nope.' Says another blond boy with big blue eyes across from him.

'Uh...' He glances around, and puts his hand in his hair, 'Glitters!'

'Still no. C'mon, Dayl!'

He makes a 'what the fuck' face, and looks our way. 'Gibbons! I got it! Gibbons!' He laughs like a baby, the brown eyes shining.

Before anyone can say a word, the blond boy facing me frowns and turns around, 'Hell no, Dayl!'

Brendan is giggling, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he leans towards them and goes, 'Starts with G?' No one hears. He asks again, louder, 'Cian! It starts with G?'

'Yeah.' Says Cian, 'Go Bren!'

'We have what? We have glass, glitters...' He can't help a chuckle, 'Gibbons...'

'Sorry Dean!' Dayl is still laughing, and he almost falls off the seat.

Dean squeezes Brendan's face, and shoots Dayl a roll of eyes, grinning.

'What do you have, Bren?' Cian asks.

He licks his lips, and picks up his glasses, 'Glasses?'

'Glasses and glass are the same.'

He frowns and mouths 'what', looking around at the others.

'It's the same when Cian says it's the same.' The one with fluffy blond hair goes plainly in a strong Wicklow accent.

'It IS the same, Josh! It's just plural. Go on, Bren.'

But Brendan is laughing so hard that he can't talk.

'Girls?' A little voice guesses.

'Hell, no, Ryan.' Sneers Dean.

Brendan holds up his phone, 'Google?'

'Yes!' Shouts Cian, waving his fists in the air, 'Yes, it's Google!' The bus stops for the red light at this point, and he jumps off his seat to give Brendan a high-five.

Then follows the awkward silence. Since the windows are rolled down on both buses, the noises from the Vamps's bus can be heard too. They have instruments with them, and Brad is doing a sing off with Tris who is surprisingly in tune. I mean, he can sing well, but that is only when he wants to, and for most of the time he's just messing around. Connor is taking care of the drum set that he doesn't really know what to do with. James is the only one who has his own instrument. Every band needs a sober member after all.

The silence is just for a moment.

'Another round, anyone?' Dayl claps his hands.

Cian pushes Dayl aside. 'Bren.'

Brendan slowly looks around, 'It starts with...' He places his hands on the laps, 'N!'

'Nose? Neck? Nails?' Dayl shouts, 'Nostrils?'

'No, Dayl,' Brendan facepalms, tittering, 'no! Shut up, shut up.'

'Newspaper?'

'No.'

'Noodles.'

'Nope.'

'...Nipples?'

'Ryan!' His cheeks flush when he laughs.

'Oh, I know!' Exclaims Josh, 'I know! Nutella!'

Facing four pairs of staring eyes, Brendan carefully confirms, 'Mm-Hmm, Nutella.'

'You knew it's in my bag.' Josh raises an eyebrow.

Brendan tilts his head and grins, hiding from the eyes. He glances at me, just for an instant.

We arrive at CDG Airport at 23:10. The private jet is waiting on the parking apron. The checking is not yet done, so I call Richard as I promised.

He picks up immediately.

'Hey, babe.' I walk a little farther away from the others.

'Hi. You're okay?'

'Yeah, both of us.'

'And they're down?'

'Hm-hmm.'

'That's good. So you're leaving Paris now?'

'Very soon. We're already on the apron.'

'And the lads? The ride was fun?'

'Yeah, they're lovely.'

'That's a very high compliment. You don't usually call people "lovely".'

'They are. But you won't like them. You don't like noisy kids.'

'You do?'

'Depends.'

'So they -'

Harry waves at me and points at the jet. I nod, and says to the speaker, 'Listen, I gotta board. We'll talk later, yeah?'

'Alright.' He sounds a little upset, but still, he goes, 'Safe journey home.'

I make a light kissing sound, and hang up.

Harry and I sit a few rows behind the boys. Harry puts his elbow on the armrest, staring in the direction of the two bands. Dean is pulling Brendan onto his lap, but the latter rejects, holding Josh's shoulder to keep the balance. Ryan is on Dean's side, watching and laughing. Cian and Dayl are giggling over something in the phone. On the other side of the hallway - Heaven knows what they're doing. Joe, who covers his eyes with one hand, doesn't even care to ask these guys to be quiet.

'Hey,' Harry turns to me, 'didn't you say that we weren't returning together?'

'We aren't. We're just both taking this plane.'

He looks confused. He wants to ask something, but there are too many questions that he doesn't know where to start.

'You'll ride your motorbike, and I have someone else to pick me up.'

'Is it Da-'

'No.'

When we land at Dublin Airport, it's 1:11. The night has fully fallen, and the wind is cool. Night flights slide down the illuminated runway, flashing their red lights, and take off one by one. I walk down the gangway; behind me, Ryan starts humming _Roses_.

'I wanna see roses fall like snow, walk beneath the stars on streets of gold. Cuz I would give it all to have your heart come home, and make me strong.'

The tall, dark-haired beta boy is standing beside Gate Clock Bar. He looks my way, and stares with those ocean blue eyes for a while. The moment he recognise me, he smiles and waves. I don't completely break my promise anyway, right, Mark?

#### PART XII

Close my eyes and lay me in my tomb, then pull the trigger and send me home.

\- Millennia·Crown The Empire

* * *

He drags me by hand to the basement. My robe is flying behind me.

The scent. I know it way too well, even though it has been a few years. It's cold as ice, fresh, wet, salty, and a little spicy; it belongs to a certain alpha. The boy is standing beside the barrels of cherry wine, dressed in black as he always did, and in contrast, his skin looks so pale as snow. Blocks of blond hair cover half of his visage and reach the neck, but these clear eyes remain as sharp as sword; the colour of his irises is shifting between all shades of blue and green. As he sees me, the scent grows intense.

The basement is illuminated with all lights turned on. All over the walls from top to bottom are hung up my paintings, in time order, the last one right facing me. It's a rose painted with acrylic, red as blood, filling the whole canvas without leaving a gap of void; light splashes its reflections on the rugged surface. There are indeed 24 paintings.

He pushes me to the centre.

I let out a low laugh. 'So you've got the news,' I turn around and take one step closer towards him, 'Seb?'

Nicky's scent is getting even more aggressive and, at the same time, more nervous.

'Jim Moriarty,' he keeps a stone face, his voice low, 'the consulting criminal, the most dangerous man existing, the spider at the centre of the web -'

'Answer me.'

His eyebrows twitch. 'What did you do to them?'

'You know what I did. The autopsy reports have said all.'

'I want to hear it from YOU. You killed Mycroft Holmes and Charles Augustus Magnussen.' He leans close, 'It's ME who did everything, Jim.'

I narrow my eyes. 'You're pleading.'

'No, I'm not.'

'You're blaming me for killing them.'

'They -'

'They're your bosses,' I roll my eyes, 'I know, and that's why I killed them.' I raise up my chin, and sighs, 'It's just you and me now.'

'It's never just you and I. You know my mission, and I know yours too.'

I laugh. 'Mission? You think I'm doing all this for a boss or something? Like you? You idiot. I'm doing it for myself. I'm the boss. My last "mission" was in Belleville, and then I resigned.'

'Tell me what you did.' He purrs, attempting to threat me.

I look into his eyes, and take a deep breath. 'Damien put ergot in the baguette, and morphine in the crème de menthe.' He doesn't say a word; he's too overwhelmed to say anything. I go on, 'The boy served the bread with slices of a normal one; Mycroft was a beta, so he couldn't tell the difference. I made my vodka stinger with the same bottle of crème de menthe, but I used a semipermeable membrane. Vodka was too strong that it hid the smell and taste of morphine. The outbreak took place half an hour later. You had your hitmen waiting for me outside,' I sneer, 'but I've already seen your trick eight years ago. It wasn't any kind of bullets in my pistol; it was raw meat with BTX-A. Now if you don't stop pleading,' I tilt my head, 'I'll wrap you up with a sparkled band, light a candle and drop the wax on your cute little cockhead, and let me think...And add some glitters - or bathe you in linseed oil - and I will burn you. I will burn the HEART out of you.'

He closes his eyes and reopens them. '"The boy"?'

'He brought me out of the cell. You should have thought of it. You wanted to keep me in for a week. You wanted to wait till I was pregnant, so that I would be weak. It drove you mad when you knew that we fled, right? It's the same thing when you fucked me in the bathroom four years later, when we had sex without protection, and even,' I reach up and whisper into his ear, 'when you didn't stop me from sleeping with Adam and Tommy.' The look of astonishment, anger and disgust in his eyes is very pleasing. 'But you know what? I had a tubal ligation right after we got out. When I locked myself up in the studio every month, I was never in heat. I told you I needed some time alone and that was TRUE.'

'What else was true?'

'Depends on how you take it.'

He sighs, and glances at Nicky who is still there in the same pose. 'You knew you were doing it wrong when you saw the codes on the bike, didn't you? You knew it wasn't Guns N' Roses. Tommy did too. But you were still so nice to them. Who has been pleading after all?'

'You should be grateful, Sebastian. I could have not been so "nice". I could have let Adam wash all my brushes and the pail. You think I didn't know they were all on your side? He was about to go to Hunters Wood the same time as I was going to Pine Forest. He called me before we exchanged numbers. He came to the bathroom on the first floor to ask if I needed help but I hadn't told anyone I just finished painting. It's so OBVIOUS.'

He is ready to say something when we all hear footsteps hurrying down the stairs. He turns around and stares defensively, but Nicky whispers, 'Oh, no.' I recognise it - Mark appears.

I stride past Sebastian and head straight to Mark. He says nothing, but hands me a clipping of the newspaper from this morning. All he has in his eyes is terror. I put a hand on his shoulder, and take the piece of paper.

Sebastian is hinting Nicky with eyes to go get Mark, but the blond boy hesitates. Their eyes meet; I take my hand off him, and walk back to where I was. Sebastian clicks the pistol in his pocket; the sound is loud in the large, quiet basement. Nicky turns his eyes to him and mouths 'no way', but Mark starts walking towards him. Sebastian darts to seize him from the back, his left forearm blocking the boy's neck, and the pistol in his right hand has the muzzle against the small of his back, the safety pulled down.

There is a second of silence.

A clack breaks it. Nicky has taken out the rifle he had on his back, and he is aiming it at me. 'Release him,' his voice is unnaturally calm, 'or I'll fire.'

'Not before he tells the whole story.' Says Sebastian. But the threat works; his arm around Mark's neck is loosened.

Nicky already puts his fingers on the trigger.

'He's dead.' I raise the clipping to Sebastian.

'It's not a coincidence that he dies TODAY,' he says near Mark's ear, 'is it.'

'He can't tell you anything, Seb,' I take a look at the blank look on the boy's face, 'because he knows nothing.' Nicky is still holding the rifle toward me, and his hands don't even tremble. This strength doesn't match his age of 20.

'The paintings in Jam Art Factory are yours.' Sebastian says, letting Mark go.

'The gallery is my base - one of my bases, but the receptionist didn't know. And those paintings aren't all.' Mark just stands there as if being immobilised. Nicky slowly puts the rifle down, his fingers staying on the trigger.

'Where are the rest?' Sebastian pushes Mark aside and makes his way to me.

'He ordered one, and the rest,' I look away, 'are here.'

His eyes quickly scan the walls, and turns back to me.

'It's easy, Seb, it's so easy!' My volume rises, 'I wore the mask, the latex gloves and the white gown when I was painting; I left the windows open; I didn't let you touch my things -'

'Adam washed your brushes.'

'Only the #4 flat brush had THE paint on it. I was kind enough to give him the watercolour brushes.'

'What did you add in the paints, sir?' Mark suddenly asks, his voice so little that it's almost a whisper.

I look at him. He is pale with fear, fear of death, of wicked minds, and of me. I calmly answer, 'Arsenic trioxide, turpentine, linseed oil, and essence of lotus and saffron.'

'And...' His chest is heaving faster, 'and I sent it to Mr Augustus -'

Bang!

Bang! But it missed. I was moving; the bullet went past my upper arm, leaving only a hole on the sleeve and a little burnt wound on my skin. Mark is lying on the cold cement ground, blood spreading slowly and quietly beneath his body, scarlet as the red rose. Nicky is kneeling close beside him, the rifle on his back. He caresses the fingers of the beta boy, and a tear drops onto the back of his hand. Long blond hair conceals his face. His scent grows violent and out of control, and I'm the only one who knows.

'Why?' I grab the collar of Sebastian's shirt, and shouts into his face, 'Why?'

All of a sudden, pain explodes in my abdomen like a volcano, making me bend forward; as if being pierced by an electric shock, I fall to the ground and land on my side. I shouldn't have shouted so loud; I'm always aware of the inguinal hernia I've got since the surgery four years ago, but when I carried the rolls of canvases to the studio without suffering from an outbreak, I though it got better. I spare a glance at Nicky, and see the restrained discomfort on his face. My scent must have gone too wild.

Sebastian attempts to take the chance and give me another attack, but Nicky blocks his way holding the rifle across his waist with a single left hand. I know he has a hernia himself; it's a sports hernia caused by the intense training, but the symptoms are similar.

'Whose side are you on?' Sebastian demands.

The boy doesn't respond. He can smell my scent too.

Even breathing hurts. I manage to sit up a little, and says, 'Give me a reason.'

'He knows too much.' He glares, and turns to Nicky, 'You too.'

The moment he raises his pistol, Nicky's fingers are on the trigger of the rifle, the muzzles aiming at Sebastian's neck. 'I'm not on anyone's side,' he slowly takes a step back, 'and you're not taking my life.' He stands next to Mark's body. The cold, spicy scent fills the whole basement, but at this point, it has cooled down, and strangely peaceful like the moment before death.

A sharp slashing sound, followed by a splash of fresh blood on the wall, the ground, and the bodies. The dagger lies beside them, reflecting the pale light. The remain of his scent is still there. The ache in my abdomen is getting worse; I can barely hold back a wince.

'Are you happy now?' I fix my gaze on Sebastian, partly to be more menacing but mostly to distract myself from the pain, 'It's finally just you and I.'

He walks closer, looking down at me. 'Tell me everything.'

I roll my eyes, 'What else do you want to know?'

'You don't like aliases, but look, now you have three. Aren't you becoming "ordinary" too?'

'It's because YOU are ordinary, "Ciarán O'Toole",' I stress the name, 'and I have to play a fair game with you. Besides,' I look up at him, 'Richard is not an alias.'

'You used his identity to rent the car.'

'Yes, exactly.'

He frowns, 'Who is Richard Brook?'

I can't help laughing, even though my abdomen still hurts quite bad. He kneels down and pin me on the ground with his hand on my chest. 'You're beneath ordinary.' I eventually say, 'Richard Brook was killed 27 years ago. I killed him before he's even born.' I sigh, and continue, 'But in a way, he's still alive. He lives inside me. My heart belongs to him.'

After a while, he goes, 'You're a chimera?'

'Now you assume I had paranoia, don't you?'

He narrows his eyes, 'But you didn't.'

'I didn't, indeed. It was all for fun.'

'All?'

'Well, not all if you fuss about it. The two "calls" in Belleville were alarms. I knew every step you planned to take, Seb, it's part of the "mission". You knew mine too, but I didn't really carry out the plan.'

'You meant to, but you couldn't.' A smile appears at the corner of his lips.

I raise an eyebrow. 'I don't care. I'm not assigned a "mission" anyway.'

'Put away your damn pride, Jim.' He presses my chest forcefully, 'You've been enjoying this relationship with me, but you never said it, because you thought emotions were for ordinary people -'

'Don't ever talk about relationships with me.' I shoot him a glare, 'We're each other's target, that's all.'

'You don't make love with your target.' He leans closer. I silently put my hand over the pistol I have beneath the robe. The safety is pulled down

'It's only sex; there's nothing about love.' Because I have forgotten what this word means, and I don't want to remember. 'And I do when I have to.'

He shakes his head, 'You're not even confident about your own words.' He leans in. His hand leaves my chest and moves to the ground beside my head, and the other hand finds itself on my cheek. I place the pistol by my side, the barrel pointing at my waist. His irises are of a darker shade of blue in the shadow, and I see my reflection in them - This pale, vulnerable creature should not be me; these large eyes are like two deep black holes in my face. He blinks; his lashes are long and curled.

I suddenly remember that an old Chinese prophet has once told me that I would die in front of my love. I've laughed at that. Love is dead and has been buried along with my grandparents, I convince myself. No one loves me ever since, and vice versa. I have to be confident about it; I AM confident about it -

Our faces get closer and closer.

The moment before his lips touch mine, I pull the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! Thank you for reading! And sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry for the ending!  
> For the lyrics for Part X, 'I wanna see roses fall like snow, walk beneath the stars on streets of gold.' from _Roses_ fits too, so I quoted it in the text.  
>  Mark Gatiss is from Sedgefield so Sedgefield it is. But I've never been there.  
> The beautiful tall alpha boy at the Ministers Restaurant is the virgin alpha that appeared in Chapter I Part III, in Belleville. I've written another work called [_La Morditita_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974957) that tells the story in another POV and reveals the identity of the virgin alpha.  
>  Quick note that a Lemmy is Jack Daniels and Coke, a whiskey cocktail. JD and Coke with a slice of lemon is too good!  
> The hotel scene (and the story about a round bed) comes from two Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo fics: [_圓床_](https://ww3.sinaimg.cn/mw690/006wkkEdgw1f7ea0w0x6vj30ri59kkjm.jpg) and [_Solo想上Illya, 但他失敗了_](https://ww2.sinaimg.cn/mw690/82ff9422jw1f317tdrvbhj20c8a9q1ky.jpg).  
>  Harry was wearing a green/purple/white (I think) plaid shirt in Hollyoaks during the kiss/sex scene with Ste who was in a blue golf shirt. Harry has a lot of golf shirt too but I generally don't like golf shirts so...Yeah.  
> There's a _Dead Bodies_ reference in the hotel sex scene. There's a short scene where Jean is riding Tommy and Tommy just keeps a stone face. The relationship between Harry and Aron here isn't that bad but they're not partners anyway so I'd rather write a stone-face Aron.  
>  About diluting concentrated sulfuric acid, when diluting you have to pour the acid into water but not vice versa, and have to be slow and careful, because concentrated sulfuric acid releases a huge amount of heat when mixed with water, and pouring the acid into water lets the heat be cooled down by the water.  
> 'The clock ticks life away' is quoting _In The End_ by Linkin Park, and it's part of the lyric codes.  
>  When I wrote 'it's 21:42', it was really 21:42 of 29 July 2017, two days before my trip back to China.  
> A little introduction of the chars that appeared with the bands, just in case. Louis is Louis Walsh, the manager of HomeTown (Dayl Cronin, Dean Gibbons, Ryan McLoughlin, Cian Morrin, Brendan Murray), also he's been the manager of Boyzone and Westlife, and co-manager (with Kian Egan) of Wonderland. Joe is Joe O'Neill, the manager of the Vamps (Connor Ball, Tristan Evans, James McVey, Bradley Simpson) as well as the Tide and New Hope Club. I have never seen the backstage of Zénith Paris, so don't take it seriously. Btw I haven't personally met either band. I've watched the Vamps live during Little Mix's Glory Days Tour, that's all.  
> It took me a whole night and half a day to come up with the scent of hot tea and cream dipped strawberries! It's for Bren, because he loves tea and makes the best tea in the band. Cream dipped strawberries...It's inspired by Godiva's chocolate dipped strawberries (which look very lovely) and some photos of strawberry flavoured drinks on Bren's Instagram. I mean he's the loveliest boy ever right!  
> The painting of the red rose comes from an embroidery I have of a red rose (Rosa chinensis actually). Got it at the shop of Beijing Botanic Garden and haven't framed it yet, but it's really amazing and VERY RED!  
> Mark said 'Mr Augustus' and Seb shot him. He wanted to say Mr Augustus Moran, Seb's father. Augustus Moran died on that day because of the paints of the painting Mark sent him in the beginning.  
> Nicky indeed suffered from a hernia (I don't know which kind though or whether it's treated now), which he mentioned in _Our Story_. It broke out when they were doing promos in the US.  
>  Again I'm sorry about the deaths! Especially Nicky and Mark's! *run away and hide*

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks for reading! Let me know what you think if you like! It's really a surprise that I haven't really finished the first part of the first chapter when I got over 100 hits and 3 kudos, and reached 200 hits on 22 Jan 2016, about 7 weeks after I posted it. Thanks a mill!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [La Morditita](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974957) by [RosVailintin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin)




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